An eye for an eye
by Blood Red Queen
Summary: Sherlock is close to cracking an ongoing case. Too close. As a brutal and terrifying revenge is taken, both he and John learn that no-one is untouchable. Eventual Sherlock/John slash    Please R and R
1. Chapter 1

_Ok, I found the BBC 'Sherlock' series online a few days ago. About a year later than everyone else, which is embarrasing. I find the relationship between Holmes and Watson really believable in this version; and, as a devoted shipper of the two, I couldn't let this opportunity pass by. I apologise if any facts are off or anyone's OOC, I never saw the entire series, just clips on youtube. If anything's wrong, it's entirely down to my own stupidity._

_Plus, Benedict Cumberbatch was as good a motivation as any :P_

John didn't like Bargain Hunt. Why he was still watching it, he didn't know, it was one of the old ones that he'd seen a million times, the blue team won. A high whistling sound alerted him that the kettle was boiling. He tore his eyes away from the tv gratefully, David Dickinson's orange tan was giving him a headache.

Sherlock was down at Lestrade's office, another victim of the Markin gang had turned up in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock had left whilst John was sleeping upstairs, John had found a hastily scribbled note explaining the situation, so all he had to do was wait for his flatmate's return. The Markin Case was taking up nearly all of Sherlock and John's time at the moment, a vicious gang guilty of murder, rape, arson, blackmail... if a crime existed, they had done it. The bastard at the centre of the gang was the unobtainable Terry Markin, an elusive thug Sherlock had hunted for years.

Pouring himself some tea, John absentmindedly watched a middle aged woman eye up an ugly little vase on the tv when his mobile phone alerted him to a text. Putting down his mug, he read the message:

_Meet me at Bart's pathology lab.-SH_

John was about the take another sip of tea when his phone buzzed again:

_Now.-SH_

Sighing, John poured his tea down the sink, switched off the tv and made his way there.

... ...

'Victim was suffocated judging by the faint bruises on the mouth and nose, the fabric stuck to the lips indicate the murder used either a scarf or was wearing gloves. Dirt under the nails suggest that the victim was on the floor at time of death, a hairline fracture on the pelvis would show that a person of great strength could have pinned the victim down.'

Lestrade valiantly tried to keep up with Sherlock's analysis, hand struggling to take notes as the tall man muttered at breakneck speed. He wished Watson would hurry up, then at least Sherlock would start making sense at a human level of understanding.

'So, someone sat on him and suffocated him?' he offered helplessly, earning him the most Sherlock-ish glare from said Sherlock.

'In essence, yes.' The consulting detective replied. Checking his watch, he huffed 'Where the hell is John?'

John pushed the door open, only to come face-to-face with Anderson. The little slimeball had a truly irritating sneer creeping on his lips. John blinked owlishly, why was he here?

'And so the Freak's sidekick is at his master's beck and call.'

John sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily, he couldn't be bothered with Anderson now, or at any other time, for that matter.

'Bugger off Anderson, where are they?' he asked. Anderson smirked.

'Upstairs with a corpse, where else would the Freak be?' he shrugged.

'Stop calling him that, his name's Sherlock, and I'm not a sidekick, I'm a ...colleague.'

Without waiting for Anderson's response, he trudged to the right room. Molly was walking the opposite way.

'Hey Molly, erm, have you seen Sherlock?' he smiled, he always tried to be nice to Molly, to even out the hurtful indifference she suffered at the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

'Oh, he's-he's here?' she asked, her hand automatically patted her hair. Somewhere in his head, John though that is was unfortunate how Molly was always going to be looking her best for a man who would much rather bash a corpse with a riding crop.

'Yeah, I think he's been here for a few hours,' John replied, 'In the pathology lab.'

'No-one tells me anything' Molly huffed and carried on her way. John continued his walk to the lab.

The scene that met his eyes completely threw him off. Lestrade was frowning in concentration as he studied the corpse of a middle aged man that Sherlock was...'sat on' wasn't the right term, 'straddling' was more appropriate. Straddling a corpse and pressing his hands over it's dead nose and mouth.

'So...the victim would be dead within 6 minuets.' Sherlock concluded. Getting off the corpse, he saw John at the door. The poor doctor's face was priceless, Sherlock considered what it must have looked like, and allowed himself a small internal chuckle.

'Ah John, there you are.' He said, in a manner akin to that of someone stating the weather, sensing the puzzlement is John's air he gestured at the victim.

'Ah yes, Steven Menzes, 54 years of age, ex bus driver. Suffocated by a member of the Markins. I was showing Lestrade how it would have happened.'

'Right.' John said, there's was nothing else he could say really. Lestrade gave him a curt nod as he entered the room.

'You needed me for something?' John asked Sherlock, his friend looked up from the corpse's fingernails he was now inspecting.

'Yes, actually.' He said, 'Please have a look at the man's fingers.'

John obliged, walking around the table and lowered himself to Sherlock's level.

'You could have woken me up before you left, I would've come with you.' He said.

'It's scientifically proven that it's a bad idea to wake a person from their nightmare before they're ready.'

'What? I didn't have a nightmare.'

'Yes you did.' said Sherlock simply. 'You were talking in your sleep.'

This threw John, 'Do I really talk in my sleep?'

'Mmhmm, frequently.' Was the reply. 'Horrors of war I suspect, you have fitful dreams and talk. Well, sometimes you talk, sometimes you cry. Once you screamed.'

John felt his face burn, it was a little humiliating to find out that not only did you act like a small frightened child in your sleep, but that your roommate found out before you did. He had lied to Serlock anyway, he did have a nightmare last night, he had watched his friend Sam die over and over again in Afghanistan, but he saw no reason to inform his flatmate of this, so he feigned ignorance.

'So,' he cleared his throat, 'What did you want me for?'

Sherlock shoved the guy's hand in John's face, 'Can you identify these?'

There were yellowish patches on the man's finger's, John snorted with disdain.

'Tobacco stains? That's what you wanted me for?'

'No,' said Sherlock impatiently, 'I called you here because I knew you were getting bored in front of Bargain Hunt, you always get bored with daytime tv.'

Damn. That. Man.

... ...

'So, Menzes was suffocated by one of the Markin's?' John asked Sherlock stupidly.

'Brilliant, really, you astound me sometimes John.' Sherlock snapped back. Honestly, for all of John's virtues he could be so bloody obtuse. However, maybe it was part of John's bluntness that made him such a good companion for him, explaining things to John made him feel like he was helping John's powers of deduction. Like a teacher perhaps.

John rolled his eyes, he didn't need snark, just the answers. It wasn't his fault Sherlock buggered off at God Knows What o'clock, that he probably pissed off Anderson and Lestrade enough for them to be short with him. Walking back to Baker Street with his friend they both mulled over the possible reasons for the murder. The only reason John could see was that the victim had been some sort of grass, informing the police of Markin's whereabouts.

It was a pleasant surprise when Sherlock agreed with him.

'Obviously they decided to kill him a while ago, whether this was planned to be on the night or just a good opportunity I don't know...' Sherlock was muttering. John translated in his head: whether this was planned or just 'wrong place, wrong time' for the poor dead sod on the table back at the lab.

'Who do you think did it?' John glanced sideways at his friend, the pale face was sporting a look of utter boredom and a 'oh pur-leeze' expression.

'I don't think John. I know.'

John sighed, of course he did.

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Fill me in.'

'Alright', Sherlock held the door to 221b Baker Street open for John as they entered, the shorter man brushed him slightly as he passed. After months of learning to control little signs of emotion, the jolt in his stomach at John's contact went unnoticed by everyone except him.

'Well,' he mused 'Menzes was giving tipoffs about Markin's son. Mycroft gave me a few CCTV tapes this morning, judging by the killer's stature-'

'Markin's son.' John finished for him.

Sherlock smiled. 'Lestrade will arrest him in the morning. Thank God for my annoying brother, he can sometimes be useful.'

Once they'd both settled down back in the flat, John made tea whilst Sherlock got bored at evening television.

'What did you dream about anyway?' He said suddenly, John handed him his mug and sank into the chair next to him.

'Wow you must be bored if you're asking.' He chuckled, noticing that Sherlock continued to stare at him. 'I did NOT have a nightmare.'

'Liar.'

John frowned. Telling Sherlock he didn't had a dream was a bit stupid. So he made something up.

'I dreamed that I was back in school teaching the teachers.'

It was a bloody stupid lie.

'John, you're a bad liar, at least to me. You're left eye twitches when you lie.'

John glared at him, a silent warning to drop it. Maybe Sherlock realised it, maybe he just got bored. Either way, he turned back to the television.

John sipped his tea, trying to complete the crossword. And failing. Miserably. 32 Down was giving him a lot of bother. Damn it. He was going to bed.

Sherlock saw his friend get up, John stretched languidly, making Sherlock's stomach do the strangle jolt-y thing again.

'Goodnight John.' He said.

John mumbled a reply and disappeared upstairs. Sherlock continued to flip through the channels, mind racing over the case.

John flopped down onto the bed, eyelids growing heavy. If they nicked Markin's son tomorrow, surely Markin himself would be forced to come out of hiding. He could imagine Sherlock's gleeful smile...the idea of a case cracked...Lestrade would...32 Down...

John didn't dream that night.

_More soon. There will be plot, I promise._

_Next chapter: Sherlock's pride makes for a dramatic situation...and John realises what 32 Down is :D_

_XXX_


	2. Chapter 2

_Ok, so, having read the lovely reviews I felt that maybe this wasn't as bad as I'd feared. So, this will be continued :)_

_Hope everyone's had a good week, keep being happy people!_

_..._

John opened his eyes blearily. Making a noise like 'sngfl' he rolled over in his bed, the last dregs of sleep falling away. The pinkish dawn light filtered through the curtains and suffused the room with gentle sunrise. John glanced at the clock: 7:30. His mind slowly began to kick in motion; what had he been thinking about last night? the number 32 was bothering him.

The quiet mumble of television could be heard from downstairs, bloody hell, did Sherlock sleep at all? John raised a hand to rub the sleepy grit away from his eyes and pulled on his dressing gown.

Sherlock flipped the pages of the newspaper idly. Dull, dull, dull, nothing of interest here. Some woman was appealing for her lost husband. He was away with his mistress, most likely in France.

Footsteps alerted him to John's presence; the doctor entered the room with rumpled hair and bleary eyes, giving him a 'bed-head' look which made the jolt come back. He watched John do his automatic 'put the kettle on' routine. Sherlock guessed that this force of habit had been so ingrained into John's psyche that it was too strong to warrant consious thoughts.

'You want tea?' John asked. Sherlock declined and continued pretending to be interested in the paper.

John gestured at the tv, 'Why's that on?'

'I'm bored, there's nothing on.'

John sighed and switched it off. Lestrade had asked them to be with them for the arrest of Markin's son. Deep inside, John wanted to see the bastard brought down, secretly hoping that maybe he would break and tell them everything. It was a twisted, feral desire to see justice done, and John's moral compass told him to avoid it like a bad chinese takeaway.

'Beatify.' Said Sherlock suddenly, snapping John out of his reverie.

'Sorry?' He blinked. Sherlock glanced at him.

'32 Down, 'to canonise one of the holy order' your crossword. Beatify.'

John stared. 32 Down! A little knot in his head cleared, replaced by two simultaneous emotions; Triumph at defeating the devil's crossword, Annoyance that Sherlock had done it for him.

'Oh, right. Thanks.' He replied, pouring boiling water into his mug. The teabag swirled around aimlessly. 'Better get to Lestrade early, there may be trouble.'

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything. John could see that, again, Sherlock had indeed not slept. His face, pale anyway, had a tired pallour to it and his eyes weren't as bright as yesterday. John wasn't worried, but it would be nice if Sherlock was at the top of his game today. Just in case.

For a while there was nothing for them to do except for Sherlock to ignore John pottering about the flat.

...

When 10 am came, both men made their way to a grimy backstreet. A seedy location that Sherlock observed with undisguided disdain.

John shifted his weight from one foot to another as he saw Donovan stormed towards them, police badge gleaming; _I'm top dog here lads._

'What are you two doing here?' she demanded 'We can handle a simple arrest!'

Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree when Lestrade cut across him.

'I asked them to be here Donovan, Sherlock may be needed to d his...stuff.'

John mentally took a photo of Donovan's face. The maelstrom of anger, surprise and pent up authority issues made for a priceless expression.

Sherlock, too, looked a little put out. No doubt it was the fact he was denied belittling the police force, and that his method of deduction was boiled down to the term 'stuff'.

'George Markin is inside, according to Mycroft.' he explained, adjusting his scarf, 'went in last night, hasn't awoken yet.'

This was news to John. When had Mycroft visited?

'I got a call from him this morning.' Sherlock explained, seeing the puzzlement on his friend's face. He had asked his older brother to check his surveilance every so often to check if the Markin gang showed up anywhere. Good old Mycroft; he smiled, always coming up with the goods.

'What's the plan?'. John's voice snaps him back to reality. Sherlock scanned the entire police squad, 5 people in total, one looked like he was going to vomit. First Timer.

Lestrade made a funny little gesture over his shoulder. 'This is the plan.'

As if on cue, the squad began to break down the door. First Timer was shouting for Markin to open up. Within seconds, they were in. Sherlock practically ran into the establishment, forcing John to bring up the group's rear.

The interior was just as dingy as the outside, peeling wallpaper and a strong smell of tobacco made for a completely disgusting place.

John didn't manage to get a good look at his surroundings. Donovan and another officer were dragging George Markin out of the bathroom. First Timer stumbled out behind them.

John started forward, the man's nose obviously broken by Markin's fist. Before John could do anything remotely helpful, the guy grunted and bustled out the door.

Donovan tugged George Markin up to his full height. It was a wonder she had managed to do it, he was a giant of a man. Evidently the woman had more physical strenght than they gave her credit for.

Sherlock walked right up to George, both men stood at the same height, but the criminal was about 4 stone heavier.

'Steven Menzes. Dead.' Sherlock reported. Markin leered.

'I know you. You're that faggot the police bring in when they're scared.'

'Don't call him that.' Interjected John angrily, no-one paid him any attention.

Sherlock stared the man down. 'You're going to be put away for a long time George Markin. Maybe you're father will try to get you out. Maybe not. In any case, enjoy prison.'

Sherlock turned back to John, giving him a small smile. He had heard John's attempt to defend him, and deep down was grateful for it.

As Lestrade clapped the cuffs onto George Markin the man called out:

'You won't be smiling long Pretty Boy! My father can hurt you without even touchin' you! You'll see Mr. High and Mighty, he'll get you!'

Sherlock waved his hand airily 'Yes, yes. And my little dog too no doubt.' he dismissed the threat.

He wouldn't admit it, but John felt a little intimidated. The look of pure venom on George's face was enough to make him shiver slightly. He wasn't sorry when Markin was lead away.

...

'Do you think it will make any difference?'

Sherlock looked up from his book. John was stood by the window, watching him. He considered the question.

'What? You mean will I sleep well tonight knowing there's one less scumbag out there? No. There's always going to be criminals out there John. I just try to keep up.'

John looked at the tall man flopped on the sofa. It wasn't a particularly happy answer, but it made sense.

'Lestrade thinks George Markin'll be sent to prison, fair trial be damned.'

Sherlock smiled. 'Lestrade has such wonderful optimism don't you think?'

John's mouth curled in a grudging smile. Sherlock was right, there was nothing to do but wait and see.

Suddenly, without warning, an almighty crash rang through the air. A large red brick smashed through the window, missing John's head by mere inches. In one swift movement, Sherlock sprang to his feet.

'John! Are you hurt?'

John's cheek was burning, bringing up a shaky hand he felt blood trickle down his face. A shard of glass had cut his face.

'That's gonna need stitches...' he muttered, to no-one in particular. Craning his neck, he tried to see someone outside.

'Nobody there anymore.' Sherlock's voice came from the centre of the room. John turned back to see Sherlock pulling a small note off the brick. Shards of glass, of all sizes, had embedded themselves into the carpet nd John was careful to tiptoe round them, praying Mrs Hudson wasn't going to come running.

'It's a message. From Terry Markin.' Sherlock explained, showing John the note. It had been typed, in big bold letters, to make sure the message really stood out:

**SEND DOWN ONE OF MINE, I'LL SEND DOWN ONE OF YOURS.**

'We have to call the police.' John said immediatley. Sherlock shook his head.

'No. That'll show we're scared.'

John stood up and went back to the window. His cheek was beginning to stop bleeding, thankfully. Sherlock remained kneeling next to the brick.

The window was mostly intact, there was just a large 'let's nearly kill John with a large projectile' like hole in it. Dammit, now they had to buy new windows, another disastourous and expensive DIY thing he had to do. Because Sherlock was sure as hell not going to bother.

'I've changed my mind.' Came Sherlock's voice, little more than a whisper. John turned back to his roomate, who wasn't looking at him, just staring at the note.

'What sorry?' John asked.

'Go clean yourself up. Call Lestrade.'

John was confused now. 'Sherlock?'

'I won't be threatened in this manner John. Just do as I say.'

John sighed, knowing better than to argue.

Sherlock heard him walk to the bathroom and close the door. A low hiss informed him that John was now checking on his injury. Whereas normally he would search outside for their invisible assailant, he was too focused on the note, which he had now flipped over. Written on the other side were six words:

**AND NEXT TIME I WON'T MISS**

...

_Thanks for reading so far, is it getting interesting yet?_

_Next chapter: Sherlock is worried. Very worried._


	3. Chapter 3

_Not looking good for our heroes is it? This could be very bad... I should warn you that this story will get quite dark, but I will inject my own stupid brand of humour every so often :P_

_..._

'What's with all the bloody fuss? I've been cut before Sherlock.'

John was really getting annoyed now. Every now and then Sherlock would ask him if he was alright, like he was on his death bed from some incurable disease. Granted, the scratch on his face stung a little, but after a few stitches, and a week or so, it would be absolutely fine, not even so much as a scar.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. He hadn't told John about the rest of the message Markin had left for them last night, he had stashed it in his coat pocket whilst John had called Lestrade and clean up the broken glass. Mrs Hudson didn't blame them for the damage down to the window, if anything, she blamed them for not telling her sooner. Lestrade had been told about the note, and Sherlock had all but begged Mycroft to keep an eye on John through his surveillance until further notice. Both men had treated Sherlock's worry with sincereity, proving that John's safety was top prority now. He had a feeling he should inform John about the added threat, it would explain the extra tension after what must have appeared to be just another empty threat. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, not after what had happened with Moriarty...

'I know, but seeing as you nearly suffered death by brick last night, there may be lasting damage.'

'What damage?' John's temper was at boiling point now, he wasn't a bloody child. 'There is no bloody lasting damage! I'm going out.' He made to rise, causing Sherlock to practically jump to his feet too.

'NO!' Sherlock cried. John froze, staring at his friend. Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly. The consulting detective took several deep breaths, forced his hand still and scratched his head.

'No...I-I really think it best if you stay here today.' An edge of nervousness crept into his voice, and he prayed John didn't detect it.

John did. It was obvious by the way he sat back down; with a reassuring finality. John was beginning to suspect he wasn't being allowed to see the entire picture.

'Sherlock-'

Sherlock cut across him. 'John, I need to go see Lestrade. Last night was a message for me, it'll be easier if you just stay.'

John knew his friend meant well, but, frankly, he was a little insulted. Wasn't he wanted? Not smart enough to accompany the great Mr Sherlock Holmes on a case? He stared at his cup of tea, watching the steam rise up in curling wisps.

'Alright' he finally agreed. 'Mrs Hudson's arranged for someone to fix the window today anyway. I'll need to be here, sort everything out.'

Sherlock nodded ferverently, such trivial matters were John's area of expertise. He had a thug to catch.

...

John was bored. Exceedingly bored. All he needed was a gun and he'd be well into Sherlock territory, firing portraits into the wall. Sherlock had been gone for hours, not so much as a text had come through. This pissed John off, the least the guy could do could just let him know what was going on. So they had been thretend, so what? John had been threatened loads of time in the army, he hated the way the two of them were jumpy at tiny noises.

There was a knock at the door. John trudged down the stairs to answer it, the caller was a small, stringy fellow with well oiled hair. At least, he may have been, the proportions were a little off in the eyehole in the door. Next to him was a thick-set man carrying a rather heavy looking suitcase.

'Yes?' John asked.

The guy peered at the door 'Hey there, a Mrs Hudson called, me and my team are here to fix the window.'

Indeed, there was a white van behind him, John could see two men smoking outside it. A telephone number was printed in patchy green paint on it's side. Sighing, he opened the door, the little guy grinned.

'Alright.' John held the door a little wider for them to come in. The little stringy guy didn't move, just continued to smile broadly.

'John Watson?' He asked. John blinked in confusion.

'Yes?'

'Greetings from my boss Mr Markin.'

John didn't even have time to think. The heavy guy moved suddenly and something large, possibly the suitcase, collided with the side of his head. There was a blinding flash of pain and a brief sensation of falling...

Then there was nothing. Nothing at all.

...

Sherlock fiddled with his scarf as Lestrade scratched notes onto his notebook. It was now 12:30, and Lestrade desperately wanted to get away, he was starting to get hungry.

'Looks like you really pissed someone off here Sherlock. Enemies in high places and all that.'

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed, 'But enemies sometimes forget that I have friends in even higher places.'

Lestrade didn't have anything to add, he never considered Sherlock had been a religious man, if he thought God was going to protect his friend and him, Lestrade should sit him down and tell him criminals don't work that way.

Anderson slid round the door, all smug slime and insults.

'Hey Freak' he greeted Sherlock. 'I heard about the brick, shame that.' Every line of his face betrayed the fact that sympathy was nowhere to be found.

'Thank you Anderson, you're condolences are much appreciated.' Sherlock shot back, it was so much fun insulting Anderson, he really didn't know how he got by without it.

Anderson frowned a little before turning to Lestrade. 'There's a gentleman outside asking to see you and the Freak.'

Lestrade looked up, Sherlock's brow furrowed. 'Who?'  
Anderson shrugged, 'Tall, rich, had an umbrella...said it was urgent.'

Sherlock was already out the door. If Mycroft had found him it must be important. Lestrade hurried after him, confusion personified.

'Sherlock! Who?...'

Sherlock stopped dead in the foyer, his elder brother's face seemed more grave than usual. Lestrade straightened his tie and held his hand out, 'Inspector Lestrade, how can I help you Mr-'

'Mycroft Holmes.' said the stranger. Lestrade blinked.

'Holmes?' He repeated, 'are you a relative?'

The elder man laughed coldly, Lestrade couldn't help but notice there was no mirth in the man's eyes. 'I see you are as observant as Sherlock describes you. My brother has an unusual knack in some respects.'

Brothers? That explained it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, this was not the time for small talk. He glared questioningly at Mycroft, who frowned.

'You know I wouldn't worry you unduly Sherlock.' He explained. A small young woman, one of his assistants, held open a laptop for both Lestrade and Sherlock to see.

'The time is now 12:31.' Mycroft narrated, 'We received the footage at 12:06, but according to the video the incident occurred at 12:01.'

'Incident?' Sherlock asked, as the footage loaded onto the screen. It was a slightly fuzzy balck and white image, but it was instantly recognisable as 221b Baker Street. A dirty white van pulled up outside it; the words TARQUIN MERRY DIY SERVICES along with a phone number were printed on the side.

'Tarquin Merry?' Lestrade asked. Sherlock didn't look up as he answered.

'Markin's not creative with his aliases apparently.'

Lestrade nodded and went back to the footage. He saw Dr Watson open the door and a few words were exchanged. Suddenly a large man swung a dark shape at Watson's head. Although the video was silent Lestrade could imagine it crunching as it hit him. The man crumpled like a ragdoll and was picked up by the fat guy. As if John Watson weighed no more than a feather the group bundled him into the back of the van. Static suffused the screen as the video reached it's end, just as the van started speeding off.

Lestrade stole a glance at Sherlock, and immediatley regretted it. The man's pale face was utterly blank, but rage and grief blazed in the normally cool eyes. It was as though Sherlock had eyes of fire.

'Wh-Where did the van go next?' Lestrade said at last, breaking a little of the palpable tension in the air.

Mycroft shook his head, 'My cameras were vandalised seconds before this footage came through. This was a planned attack, they demolished any possible surveillance.'

Sherlock nodded stiffly, then clicked his fangers at Lestrade. 'Give me your phone.'

Lestrade frowned. 'What?'

'Your. Phone. Lestrade.' Sherlock drawled, all traces of fear gone from his eyes.

Lestrade handed over his mobile, Sherlock asked his brother to rewind the tape, who obliged. A still image of the van took up the screen, it's telephone number printed in clear view.

'What are you doing Sherlock.'

A thin smile. 'I'm going to give our friend Markin a call.'

...

_*cue the dramatic music * Oh dear. Don't worry, Sherlock's a hell of a lot more shaken than he's letting on, but Lestrade don't know that :P_

_Next chapter: Someone underestimates John, and Sherlock overhears something he really wishes he hadn't..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for sticking with me so far :)_

_Congrats to 'Sherlock' and Benedict Cumberbatch for being nominated at the National Television Award for Best Drama and Drama Performance! Unfortunately, neither won in their category (curse you 'Waterloo Road' and David Jason! * shakes fist angrily * )_

_Anyhoo, back to the story :) Sorry it's taken a while to upload this chapter, I've been helping out backstage at 'Nicholas Nickleby', a rather looooooong play :)_

...

_Moriarty waved the gun about with reckless abandon, yelling about choosing between Sherlock's life and his own. This was stupid, Moriarty was stupid, the entire fiasco was surface of the water glittered in a vaguely sinister manner, lapping over the concrete. John tried to explain that he was only there to appoint David Dickinson as the new leader of the Oompa Loompas, but Moriarty wasn't having any of it. He turned the gun on Sherlock..._

John awoke with a start. Although the place was so dark he wasn't quite sure his eyes were open at all. He was lying on his side, on a concrete floor as far as he could tell. The side of his head ached where the large man had hit him. Goosebumps across his shoulders made him realise that, whilst he had been out of it, his shirt had been removed. Thankfully he wasn't stark naked, his jeans, shoes and socks were firmly in place. His limbs and head felt heavy, like they were made of stone.

Fuck. He'd been kidnapped. Again.

That's it, he was going to have to talk to Sherlock (if he ever saw Sherlock again, his brain interrupted). He was tired of being the bad guy's 'get out of jail free' card, he gave himself a little internal berating over how easy he must be to abduct. He'd faced down terrorists, under a hail of bullets and explosions, he'd always marched on. Now, all it took was a well judged swing and he'd be like a helpless little damsel in distress. This was all to do with Markin's son, it had to be.

He wasn't blindfolded, at least, as far as he knew. By now his pupils would have fully dilated, but John could percieve nothing in the sheer blackness.

John raised his head-his neck muscles groaned in protest- and tentitavely reached out a hand. After a while, having used his hands to find the edges of the walls, he jugded his dank cell to be the size of a small basement. There was a good two feet between him and the cieling, so he could stand up. How long had he been down here? An hour? A few hours? A day? His throat felt dry and raw, and his thoughts drifted back to the cup of tea he'd left on the table back at Baker Street. He could murder a bacon sandwich right now, maybe a few biscuits too...

_Don't think about that _his brain told him, _thinking about it will only heighten the feelings, remember the rations in the army?_

John focused on his shoulder instead. Since the bullet wound had healed it ached in cold weather, it would ache for the rest of his life, he rubbed his shoulder with his other hand, trying to loosen the tightly knotted muscles that had seized up whilst he was unconsious. He massaged the side of his head too, he could feel a bruise just above his ear, Jesus, what had been in that briefcase?

_I must be underground_ he judged after a while _it's cold, dark and damp, an underground cell?_

John heard voices arriving from a distance, two voices, both male. They seemed to be having an arguement:

'Wait til the boss picks up the call. Then you can have as much fun as you want. Don't get too excited.' John recognised the voice as that of the little oily man he'd opened the door to, he was strongly reminded of some sort of greasy rat, a slimy arse-kisser.

A gruff, gravelly voice answered; 'He's only small, didn't take nuffink to knock him out.'

'I said no Pete.'

'Bugger what you say, what harm can he do?'

John realised too late that the voices were getting closer. A door burst open and light, though at a low level, practically blinded John. He slammed his eyes shut as heavy footsteps moved towards him. Opening them, he saw the large man who'd knocked him out leering at him, fists as large as dinner plates grabbed him roughly by the upper arms and hauled him upright. John's back smacked into a concrete wall and his feet were dangling a few inches off the ground as the guy named Pete held him up. The man's breath reeked of old alchohol and tobacco, John could see at least three rotten teeth. Whilst the man emitted a little cruel laugh, John brought his head back a little.

And slammed it down as hard as he possibly could.

Whilst not hard enough to break the guy's nose, it was effective enough to allow him to be dropped. John quickly blinked the pain away and sprinted out the door, past Pete the Brute and Oily the Rat. He ran into a bigger room, which in turn had many corridors and alcoves attached to it, a gloomy blueish sort of light filled the place, making it seem colder than it was.

John heared a shout from behind him, and before he had chance to move a further three men had tackled him to the ground. A brief scuffle ensued as John put up a bloody good fight to throw the men off him, however, he was overpowered and ended up lying on his stomach on the floor, arms pinioned behind his back.

'I see you've made yourself at home' came a voice, it had a light cockney accent. John lifted his eyes and saw Terry Markin looming over him. Smaller than his son, he had the squishy look of what was once hard muscle had turned to fat. Old tattoos stretche dover his forearms like green veins and balding grey hair lay unkempt on the top of a haggard face. His eyes were brown, but very, very cold. He smiled, and it made John uncomfortable to look at him.

'It's a pleasure to finally meet you Dr Watson' he said silkily, 'but, you kinda shat all over my hospitality there.'

A hand slammed into John's bad shoulder, causing the doctor to grunt in pain. Markin's smile broadened as John heard the unmistakable sound of tape being unwound.

'Your friend Sherlock's been calling' Markin told him, waving a battered mobile phone in front of his face, 'I haven't answered yet, any bets on how long it'll take for him to give up?'

'When you're IQ reaches 5, you overgrown weasel' John spat as his wrists were lashed together by duct tape, the hands released him, and he wriggled slightly, attempting unsuccessfully to loosen them.

Markin's smile disappeared and he leant into John's face, his eyes glinting threateningly.

'Don't insult me John, you're more expendable than you think you are.'

John's rather rude reply was cut off midstream as another length of tape was pressed over his mouth, gagging him. He felt a large pair of hands, possible Pete's, drag him backwards, despite his best efforts to struggle. He landed with a soft thump on the floor and the door shut behind him, leaving him lying prone in the darkness once more.

...

'Sherlock, if the guy doesn't pick up the phone after the first 29 times, he probably won't answer at all.' Lestrde said gently, watching the detective pace up and down frantically, running his fingers through his unruly hair.

'Nonsense, he'll answer eventually. He wants to drag it out, this is fun for him.' came the distracted reply.

Lestrade sighed, about five hours had passed since Watson's abduction, their landlady had been informed, as had John's family (namely his sister)and his friend Sarah. All had been upset and rightly so, but nothing had compared to the few seconds when Lestrade had seen just how deeply Sherlock cared for the veteran soilder. Though he'd never admit it, Lestrade thought Sherlock had looked like some wrathful diety, ready to destroy mercilessly in order to protect. If John Watson was in danger, God help the sorry son of a bitch responsible when Sherlock turned up.

'Sherlock,go home.' he ordered at last.

Sherlock stared, his hand hovering ridiculously between strokes, 'What?'

'You're going out of your bloody mind, John told me you hadn't slept for about two days, just...go get some sleep and come back when you're brain's working okay?'

Sherlock stashed the phone into his pocket and glared at Lestrade. Did the man really not comprehend the gravity of the situation? John was nowhere to be found, he could be badly hurt, or worse. Sherlock refused to think about the possibility John was dead, if he was, surely he would...you know, sense it or something?

'Alright' he answered, sweeping out the door before Lestrade could so much as speak.

...

Nothing in the room, broken window aside, showed any signs of John's kidnap. The television was still on, Sherlock turned it off.

On a table was a mug of tea; John's stupid, wonderful tea. It had turned stone cold hours ago and, although he scoffed at himself for being like a sentimental child, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to tip it down the sink just yet. Without bothering to remove his scarf or coat, he flopped on the sofa. He stared at the cieling, wishing his brain would cut him some slack and just think straight, all this thinking...it wasn't going to help John at all.

And yet, maybe it wasn't too late.

Sherlock pulled out the phone, redialled the number and held it to his ear, unconsiously holding his breath.

It picked up on the fifth ring; 'Hello Mr. Holmes. How can I help you?' Terry Markin's voice issued arrogantly out of the mouthpiece, making Sherlock grip the phone all the harder.

'Listen Markin, I know you're upset about your son, but it's me who's to blame. John's done nothing to you, he's innocent, let him go.'

'John? Joo-oohn?' came the sing-song reply, Sherlock could practically hear the snide smile.

'Oh yes, I seem to have someone of that name here.'

Sherlock heard a grunt and a soft thump, John had been thrown carelessly to the ground. A sharp tearing sound where tape was torn from skin.

'I must say I never figured you the gung-ho rotective type' Markin's tone was conversational, almost friendly. Sherlock resumed his pacing and wildly running his fingers through his curls.

'I want to speak to John.' he demanded 'let me speak to him.'

'Say please' Markin growled. Somewhere in the background, there was a sharp cry of surprise and pain. Sherlock had no trouble identifying John's voice, and felt his stomach drop as he overheard his friend obviously in pain.

'Please.' He obeyed softly. The sound of Markin's footsteps echoed eerily down the phone.

'It's for you.'

There was another yelp of pain, and Sherlock heard John's breathing, shallow and ragged.

'Sherlock?'

A wave of bittersweet relief flooded through Sherlock, tingling at his extremities. John was alive, hurt and quite obviously frightened, but alive.

'John listen to me,' he said, trying to be reassuring and urgent at the same time, whether he was successful or not remained to be seen 'I'm going to find you, understand? I'm coming to get you, just hold on. We're doing our best. Hold on ok?'

A few seconds passed, to Sherlock it seemed like a hour until finally...

'Ye-aaaaargh.' John's voice was cut off by yet another cry. Sherlock's fingers clenched involuntarily. What the hell were those bastards doing to him?

'Oh I'm sorry, but time's up.' Markin's voice interjected 'Good luck Sherlock, look out for another message...if your friend even lives that long.'

There was a click, and Sherlock could hear no more.

...

_So, how's it going? Thanks so much for the great reviews so far, they keep me dancing ^^_

_Next chapter: Sherlock visits and old aquantaince and John sees what exactly is in store for him..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey my dears, enjoying it so far? I do seem to be treating our favourite boys so badly don't I?_

_The next few chapters will take a little long to update, I'm Stage Manager for a production of the musical 'Bat Boy' and then backstage crew for 'The Villain's Opera'...it's gonna be a busy few weeks! Also, I have a crap ton of assessments and essays to do, so please bear with me..._

_I should point out 'Sculptor' is the English spelling, before I get comments of 'ZOMG U CAN'T SPELL!'._

_..._

Pain is only in the mind. Don't obsess over it and it won't obsess over you. Ignore the pain and like some sulky little kid it'll go away. At least, this is what John was trying to do., but his trouser leg was soaked in blood that was already beginning to dry and make the cloth stick to his skin. His shoulder ached because of his bound hands and hunger and thirst raged...his bladder was becoming annoyingly full too. He had once gone a full two days in Afghanistan without once using a loo, but, seeing as he wasn't in the army any more, it was something he could only ignore for so long.

It had been comforting when Sherlock had called, a warming sensation had tumbled into John's chest to know the detective was searching for him. When Markin had been talking to him Oily The Rat had sidled up to him and, after a non-verbal signal from his boss, had plunged a tiny switchblade knife into John's thigh. It hadn't gone very deep; not nearly deep enough to do any lasting damage-light scarring at worst- but it had bled a lot and stung like a bitch. He hadn't meant to cry out, but it was so unexpected, and the second time it _hurt_. When Sherlock had spoken to him on the phone, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance, John's reply had been cut off thanks to the little shit gripping the blade still in his flesh and _twisting _it. In hindsight, the pain wasn't nearly as bad as having a bullet crash into your shoulder, or the sheer force of an explosion making concrete nearly crush you and your sociopathic colleague, but when you're in the dark, alone and cold, it seemed so much more.

And he really wanted his shirt back.

John had no way of telling how much time was passing in the dark, but he was pretty certain he dozed off at one point. He had enjoyed a brief and not unpleasant dream about cheesecake, he internally reminded himself he and Sherlock should buy cheesecake by way of celebration when he got out of here. He knew he was only carrying on the mental ramblings to steel himself against the consuming darkness, but hell, it was working wasn't it?

A shaft of light and the sound of footsteps made John look up, Oily the Rat was creeping towards him, heavy briefcase in hand.

'Good morning Dr Watson.' He said cordially. _Morning_, he had been here for over 12 hours...

The little man crouched down in front of John's huddled form, 'Do you know who I am?'

'The Giant Rat of Sumatra?' John asked sarcastically, earning himself a punch in the mouth that made him catch the inside of his cheek between his teeth. The metallic taste of blood welled up in his mouth.

'You have a sense of humour Watson.' The man said 'It's going to get you killed one day.'

Up close, the man had a sallow tinge to him, a gaunt and pinched face with hollow cheeks. Up close, John saw how unhealthy he really was. Slowly, like a bad mime artist, he unclasped the locks on the briefcase.

'My name is Klause, known to my friends, and some of my enemies, as the Sculptor.'

It required no imagination for figure out the title's meaning; _ I carve people up. _He began to extract items from the briefcase; a set of knives, a scalpel, a hammer, some syringes filled with...something, and what appeared to be a rolling pin.

Great, as if being kidnapped wasn't bad enough, John thought how highly embarrasing it was to survive a war and Moriarty only to be battered to death by a bloody rolling pin...

'So what are you? A torture guy for hire?' he spat, desperatley hoping he sounded braver than he felt. Sculptor grinned.

'I am an Artiste with pain my friend.' He said simply, 'Mr Markin felt my services would be apt here...'

John had no trouble deducing what he meant by 'services'. He forced himself to match the Sculptor's stare, pupil to pinhole pupil.

'But, before all that buisness,' the man said, producing a slice of bread, a small glass of water and a small bucket from behind him. 'Refresh yourself, I'd hate for you to starve before the fun begins.'

...

Although it hadn't been long, and it certainly hadn't been nice, Sherlock had slept, well, napped. Although he definitely felt a little better for it physically speaking, inside he felt terrible for sleeping whilst John was still out there somewhere. The one thing that bothered him the most was that John hadn't been targeted on a whim, he wasn't the original target...John had been taken because of him. If only he had let John accompay him to the Yard, maybe he would have been better prepared, better protected. Maybe if he had let Mrs Hudson know of the danger...all the niggling maybe's and what if's flooded his system, making him a little dizzy.

Sherlock recalled an old quarrel he and John had a while back, the details were a little hazy in his memory, something about caring, and how it was powerless to save a life. He remembered that John had been disappointed, maybe even a little disgusted by Sherlock's attitude, thinking that feeling made you great, made you human.

Well, look where 'humanity' landed John. Stuck with a high-functioning sociopath, a post traumatic stress disorder thanks to the army, solving crimes with aforementioned sociopath, and then strapped to bombs and kidnapped by crude scum because of it.

Sherlock felt a little sick, and he was 87% certain it had nothing to do with the fact he hadn't slept or eaten very well. He finally poured John's tea away, watching the brown liquid swirl down the drain. No word from either Mycroft or Lestrade, which meant neither had found John, or anything that could help. This was taking too long, 20 hours was too much.

A name drifted into his consiousness, floated for a few seconds in the forefront of his mind and then happily settled down near the proverbial lightbulb of good ideas.

Yes, why not him? He had connections, friends in low places, contacts in even lower levels. He'd be a good attempt to locate John. He owed Sherlock a favour anyway, why not now?

Sherlock texted Lestrade: _Going to visit Ruard. Could be useful-SH._

_..._

John's hands had been untied for him to eat, drink and relieve himself. Now that he'd gotten rid of the bladder worry and the concern for nutrition, he set his mind on how to best escape. So far, the only plan he'd hatched was to strangle Sculptor with the sleeve of his shirt, nick the briefcase and whallop anyone who got in his way. It wasn't exactly a genius plan, but it was the best he could hope for.

He looked at Sculptor, who was smiling genially to his instruments.

'Can I have my shirt back? I'm cold.' John asked.

'Hmm? Oh, your shirt. No my boy, we're saving that for something else.'

John was puzzled, saving it? What the hell for? He found he didn't want to ponder it too deeply, he knew it would certainly be no picnic.

'Shall we get started John?' said Sculptor cheerfully. John's fleshed crawled at his name delivered in such familiar, friendly tones. They we're never going to be friends, so he could drop the 'lets be pals' act. John told him that he was in no mood to get started in a hurry, and politely told him where he could stick his instruments, which Sculptor didn't find amusing. Another right hook connected with John's face, a little burst of pain blossomed over his cheekbone.

'Maybe I can try this? I've been dying to try it out.'

John's stomach clenched when he saw what Sculptor had in his hands, it was the rolling pin, but wrapped around it was cruel, spiked, barbed wire.

...

Arthur Ruard owned a small bookstore on ththe outskirts of town, Sherlock had once helped him out on a case he like to remember as 'The Strange Affair of the Scottish Pumpkin'. As Sherlock travelled in a taxi, he recalled the handsome French youth who would have been dead if Sherlock had not conjured an ingeneous gadget using nothing but yoghurt, a digital watch and twine. If anyone was willing to help Sherlock, it would be him.

The car pulled up in front of a small establishment with the sign 'RUARD BOOKSTORE' fluttering beside green and white awning. The warm breeze played with Sherlock's hair as he got out and paid the driver, it would have been a pleasurable sensory experience if fear for John hadn't made everyhting harsh and cold.

The interior of the shop was dry and slightly gloomy, books were lined against the walls and a small desk leading to the backroom. It was empty.

Sherlock waited patiently, and sure enough, a tall, blonde young man entered, absorbed in a leather bound edition of 'Catcher in the Rye'.

He was a good looking boy, mid-twenties, soft blue eyes that peered from behind horn-rimmed glasses and gold hair that was lighter than John's.

'Bonjour Ruard' Sherlock said, the young man looked up.

'Monseiur Holmes!' he smiled, closing his book to hurry round the desk to shake Sherlock's hand vigourously 'Good to see you again!'

Despite the fear that still gnawed away at his insides, Sherlock forced himself to match the lad's smile. However, he sensed Ruard wasn't fooled, because he frowned slightly.

'This is not a social visit.' It was an observation, not a question.

'I'm afraid not Arthur,' Sherlock shrugged 'I'm in need of your help. A colleague of mine has run foul of Terry Markin's gang. It would be nice if he made it back in one piece.' This remark came out cold, even callous to his ears, but it was bloody better than to have his teeth chatter and to burst into soppy tears like he felt like doing.

Ruard nodded 'I see, you need a way in? I have a friend, he can find the hidey hole Markin's stashed in.'

It was moments like this when Sherlock wondered whether it was only people like John and Arthur Ruard, people with emotions big enough to bounce rocks off of, that had such brave spirits; or did everyone in the street have the hero gene?

'Thank you.' He said gratefully, 'His name's John Watson, he's-'

'An ex-soilder from Afghanistan, a doctor, dark blonde with brown eyes, cute in a kind of squidgy English way?'

Sherlock was a little taken back, but no surprised. After all, John's blog had a sizeable following, so Ruard must have got the ex-soldier and doctor informaation that way. Sherlock also deduced that Ruard had seen John's profile picture, although, when describing John, the word 'squidgy' had never crossed his mind.

'I am quite an avid follower of your adventures with John,' Ruard smiled 'although maybe you shouldn't be so hard on his storytelling, they'd make one hell of a novel.'

Sherlock secretly vowed that if John was found alive he'd never criticise his blog again, he'd hapilly sit through the trivial description and weak prose if it meant John was still writing it. Sherlock felt a little odd, he'd never realized before how attached to John he'd become, he'd never even been friendly with Mycroft or his parents. Sherlock Holmes wasn't popular, he'd never needed to be. As difficult as it was to admit to himself, he found he needed John near him, to keep him sane if nothing else.

'Right, helpful advice.' Sherlock drawled sarcastically 'Can you get me information.'

Ruard's playful smile faded, maybe he sensed the panic in Sherlock's eyes, the tiny tremor in his voice. 'I'll do what I can.'

...

_It's nice to have contacts isn't it? I'm sorry, OC's aren't really my thing, and I seem to have included quite a few XD_

_Next chapter: Sculptor lives up to his namesake. Poor John._


	6. Chapter 6

_Well, I totally failed at my scenic construction assignment..._

_Thank you so much for sticking with me, I'm a sucker for reviews so please feel free to leave one, even if it's to tell me what you had for lunch today._

_I was about half an hour early to one rehearsal, so the Metro newspaper rewarded me by giving me a double spread article about Benedict Cumberbatch as the lead role in Danny Bouyle's new play 'Frankenstein' (with a rather nice photo to look at too). That kept me squeeing for a good 20 minuets :3_

_..._

He had bitten his lip, he had clenched his fingers into the ground, he had made every possible attempt to keep himself from crying out. Three burly men had pinned him to the ground, so his back was exposed, he had felt the spikes tickle his skin, they tugged, pulled and ripped at his flesh a little, small rivulets of blood had coursed down his ribs as he struggled to get up, roll over, do _something_...

They said they had been 'gentle' with him, John suspected that it was going to get a hell of a lot worse. The skin over his bullet wound had been torn open by the wire, newly healed skin had been ripped open once more, he felt a little bit perturbed that they would make him have to go through the healing process again.

Huddled in the dark cell he began to think of things to pass the time and take his mind of the fact that his back had just been perforated. He thought of Harry, her dirty jokes and easygoing nature...he thought of 221b Baker Street, Mrs Hudson bustling around, trying to tidy up the organized chaos of the flat, despite the fact she was their 'landlady, not their housekeeper'...He thought of Sarah, feeling a little guilty that the last words they had spoken to each other had been less than friendly...

He finally thought of Sherlock. A little jolt slapped at his insides and he wasn't sure why. He thought about how dull Sherlock would find this buisness, the strange way he flopped on the sofa, his stupid experiments in the kitchen,in the back of John's mind, he could practically hear the haunting refrains of a violin...

Something -he wasn't sure what- made him jolt out of his reverie, a slight shiver raised goosebumps across his raw shoulders. He could hear the door open, and Markin's footsteps reach nearer.

'How you feeling doctor?'

'Piss off.' John knew a smart mouth wouldn't help him, but he couldn't resist.

'Now now,' Markin growled, clicking his fingers so a group of rough looking men crept up behind him, 'Klause is looking forward to the next session, but my boys want to have a little fun, it's been a while since we've had this business.'

Someone held John upright, large hands grasping his injured shoulder roughly. A powerful punch caught him in the solar plexus, knocking all the air out of him. John doubled over and tried to draw breath, the oxygen being dragged back into his lungs in short, painful bursts.

'Go ahead guys, but play nice.'

John had been beaten up before, chances were he'd be beaten up again. The blows rained down on him, punches and kicks, John could feel blood on his face and his back. Curling up into a little ball to shield his stomach he felt consiousness slipping away from him. After a while he was barely aware of the group attacking him. He didn't cry out, not even when he felt his right arm clearly break with a sickening crack and the pain suffused his entire being...he couldn't, he _wouldn't _give them the satisfaction..._Sherlock. Where are you Sherlock?_

...

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, clenching his jaw. Ruard's man had been a little reluctant to help and Sherlock couldn't blame him, Markin's gang was a dangerous thing to ask of someone. But a sneaky bribe from Ruard and the petty criminal promised to do his best.

Sherlock practically ran into Mrs Hudson as he flung the front door open.

'Oh Sherlock dear there you are.' The older lady said gently, relieved to see at least one of her boys home. 'There's a young woman upstairs waiting for you, I think it's about John.'

Sherlock blinked 'A woman?'

'Yes, I hadn't the heart to turn her away. Poor dear, she seemed so distraught, I let her in using my spare key. She was prepared to wait until you came home.'

Sarah. Great, that was what Sherlock needed, a hysterical Sarah blubbering all over the place. Asking questions about John, snivelling on about how she missed him, he would have to keep his face perfectly blank as she warbled about how much she loved him...

He braced himself for the sight of John's girlfriend and strode into the messy room.

It wasn't Sarah. Sherlock didn't recognise the woman at first; but a swift examination, sandy blonde hair, deep brown eyes and the same nose John had.

This was Harriet Watson.

She looked up at him, eyes completely dry, but hollow with fear.

'Sherlock Holmes?' she asked hesitantly.

Sherlock nodded and shook her hand, he could see Mrs Hudson had made her a cup of tea. A strange twisting feeling racked his stomach but he couldn't help but smile to himself: the Watsons certainly had a rapport with tea. He sank onto the sofa as she was perched in John's armchair. For the first time, Sherlock felt useless, he hadn't really considered John's family before. He had no idea on what to say to comfort her, and he found he didn't want to look at her too long, her eyes were just as expressive as her older brother's.

Harry stared at him. 'Tell me everything.'

Sherlock did. He told her everything about his hunt for Terry Markin, the brick and the threat, the kidnap, the phone call and his dealings with Ruard. To her credit, not once did Harry weep or interrupt his story. She just stared at the mug of tea in her hands in a way similar to John when Sherlock explained his deductions.

'So we won't know anything until we've either found him, or Markin sends another message.' he finished quietly.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

'So it's you then.' Harry said hoarsely, 'It's all about you.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Beg your pardon?'

She looked at him and Sherlock resisted the urge to flinch; he had only seen John give that look once before, when he attempted to shoot the Golem. It was a hard, flat stare, full of hatred and cold calculation.

'It's your fault. All this crazy shit has happened to John because of _you._'

It was like a slap in the face. Sherlock's own doubts and misgivings were being thrown at him a hundredfold by an almost complete stranger. There was no compassion, no warmth in her eyes, just grief and anger and poison.

'The way John talks about you, I thought you were some great, clever hero,' she continued, 'but you just don't care do you? You just don't give a FUCKING DAMN!'

She was on her feet now, towering over Sherlock. He kept his face and eyes impassive and emotionless as her tirade washed over him, soundlessly hiding his shock. Harry's breath was rapid and shallow, fists clenched by her sides.

'See? You don't even acknowledge that he's still out there! He's probably hurt badly, maybe even-'

She trailed off, half collapsing into John's chair again. Glancing at Sherlock she noticed the cold blue eyes seemed to stare straight through her, didn't this crazy bastard care at all?

'They're going to kill him aren't they?' It wasn't so much a question as an order for confirmation. Harry's voice cracked, and she felt tears pricking her eyes. Her brother, her brave and cuddly older brother was going to die, and it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.

'Quite possibly' came the soft reply.

'I blame you. It's your fault.' She choked through her tears. A tiny muscle in Sherlock's jaw clenched and Harry saw his Adam's apple bob slightly as he swallowed. She couldn't stand this man's presence anymore, it was like raging against some statue, she had a feeling nothing she said or did could penetrate him. 'You may not do it yourself but you're responsible. You're a murderer Sherlock Holmes. You've as good as killed John.'

And with that, she strode past him and out of the flat, making sure to slam the door as hard as she possibly could.

Sherlock hadn't moved, still sat on the sofa he allowed the suffocating silence to swallow him whole, it was a full twenty seconds until he released a breath that he had hitherto been unaware of holding. Among the theories and deductions that buzzed in his head, Harry's accusations cut through like a steel blade, merging together until they became practically incoherent:

_You don't care! You're killing him..._

_You are a murderer!_

_You've killed him..._

_You've murdered John._

...

When John awoke, he had three simultaneous thoughts:

Fuck, my arm hurts.

Oh God I could kill for a cup of tea...

That's it, I am never using a DIY service again.

It took him a little while to register that he was, in fact, standing up. His arms were cuffed over his head and attached to a pipe. They had moved him to a little antechamber, smaller than the one he had been in. Luckily, he could place his feet flat on the ground, so his shoulder and arm weren't comletely put under strain. His back ached horribly plus he could no longer remember where the cut on his cheek he had obtained from the brick was, there were so many other bruises and cuts on him to focus on.

He tried to swivel himself around, and instantly regretted it. Pain shot along his arm, making him finally release a cry of agony. When he finally blinked away the water threatening to spill over his eyelids and regained controlled his breathing, he felt a little angry with himself. If he couldn't move very much without causing a massiv eamount of pain, how could he yank himself out of the cuffs?

Thanks to practically absorbing Sherlock's style of thinking by listening to the cases they had been on, John deduced that he was in the centre of the room (it wasn't that good a deduction, seeing as now there was enough light to see).

'Ah, you're awake then.' came Sculptor's voice from behind him 'I was beginning to suspect they'd beaten you into oblivion.'

If John hadn't been restrained or in pain, he probably would have lashed out to the best of his ability, but he couldn't. Sculptor sneaked up behind him and placed a hand tenderly on his bloodied back. _Oh God. Don't touch me._

'You know, I've had business with hundreds of people' the man continued, running his hands down John's ribs. The tone of his voice suggests he was reciting a menu; 'Men, women, children. I've never had to do a soldier before.'

Children. This monster mutilated _children_. The thought chilled John's blood, causing him to shiver. He felt Sculptor's fingers tracing the contours of his back, almost like a lover. The light touches instilled an irrational terror in John. For the first time, John was scared, no, _fucking scared shitless_ of the man.

'They'd broken long before I'd finished.' Sculptor purred 'But I suspect you'll be a little more hardy. My little steadfast soldier.'

John wasn't ready for it. Suddenly he felt the barbed wire claw it's way down his back again, harder this time. John released another little scream, feeling the cold tips rip the muscle a little deeper.

'Ah, how sweetly you sing my friend!' The man behind him laughed, digging the metal into any spare skin he could find.

'How does it feel?' He asked John after a while. John grimaced as his brain tried to focus on either his back or his arm, no good, he blocked out a little of the pain to answer.

'How do you think it feels?' he snapped.

'No.' came Sculptor's voice 'I meant, how does it feel to go through this because of your friend? How does it feel knowing you are the leverage?'

Sculptor walked round to face him now. 'I've been watching the both of you for a while...Sherlock Holmes is practically made of ice. And yet some stupid little man come along and he learns how to feel...how to care. How does it feel, making Sherlock Holmes into a human being?'

John was at a loss, it was a lot of information to receive in ten seconds. This man had been sying on them, he knew everything, it was true that Sherlock was becoming a little more considerate to people. But it had nothing to do with him.

Did it?

'I have no idea what the hell you're on about.'

A cold blade came to rest on John's bottom lip and Sculptor's rat like face was inches from his own. From an unsuspecting point of view, at a quick glance, it would have looked like an almost-kiss.

'I mean, why does he keep you around? It's obviously not your intelligence. How easy was it to bring you out in the open?'

John didn't reply. There seemed no reasonable response and he wasn't sure what answer the psychotic little shit would prefer. However, he expected that silence wasn't exactly going to get him a cuddly toy either.

With one swift movement, the scalpel tore at his lips. As John attempted to spit the blood away, he heard Sculptor's footsteps retreating. A door closed, and all John could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Inexplicably, he forced a harsh laugh out. There was no humour to be found anywhere, but he couldn't help it, it helped block a little more of the pain...

It wasn't until he felt tears running down his cheeks that John realized he was crying.

...

_Grr. Sorry, I ran out of steam a little there. See you soon my darlings :)_

_Next chapter: 'While this is all very fine Sherlock' said Mycroft irritably, tapping his fingers on the sofa back, 'But could you be a little less melodramatic? You're giving me a headache.'_


	7. Chapter 7

_Just a little filler chapter to keep you all happy for a while. I've included a little MycroftxAnthea here for those of you (like myself) who thinks the elder Holmes deserves a little lovin'._

_By the way, I hope you guys don't mind my little rambles in these notes; it's just my brain refusing to keep it's opinions to itself._

_Oh, and special mention to XMillieX whose hilarious reviews keep me giggling at my laptop screen :)_

_..._

The sleek black car pulled into a well practised and precise stop outside the steps of 221 Baker Street. It had been exactly 3 days since John Watson's abduction and Mycroft considered it time to check on his little brother. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't done anything completely stupid whilst the investigation continued.

Afjusting his collar Mycroft glanced over at his assistant Anthea, whom had been driving the car. Secretly, he was glad to have her back, having allowed her a week off to visit her ill father in Margate. The young lady he had employed as a temporary subtitute, Katie, had been present when he had shown Sherlock the kidnap footage. Whilst Katie had been competent and had performed admirably, she just hadn't been _Anthea_.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Anthea turned round and gave him a tight lipped, reassuring smile, then pulled out her phone and began texting. No doubt sending emails to other contacts of his. Her nails were a light shade of coral today, Mycroft noted, it suited her. She was also wearing the perfume one of the security team (who had a little soft spot for her) had given her for Christmas. It was a nice scent, spicy but with undertones of some sort of fruit. Mycroft had always been sensitive to smell, ever since he was little.

'I'll be back in 30.' he informed her, exiting the car.

The flat was even gloomier than before. It wasn't that it was dark; on the contrary, it was rather light outside, it was that there seemed to be some suffocating invasive presence filling up the entire room. Mycroft saw Sherlock lying his back on the sofa, eyes closed and his fingers steepled under his chin, as tough in prayer. Mycroft knew better than to make such a poetic connection, his brother was not a man of faith, a man of brutal and calculating science? Now, that was a more accurate description.

'Any news?' Sherlock asked, not even opening his eyes. Despite being used to his brother's unnatural skill, he was a little surprised.

'How did you know it was me?'

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, 'Please, I know no-one who uses sandalwood cologne to such an extent, plus, I can hear Anthea's infernal tapping from here. I said, do you have any news?'

'None, regrettably.' Mycroft admitted, settling down on the arm of John's armchair. 'Shouldn't you be helping Lestrade?'

'No, I'm in the process of deleting.' Sherlock replied, his eyes were still closed. If it weren't for the fact his mouth was moving, you could be excused for mistaking him for a statue.

''Deleting?'

'Yes. Deleting. I need to free up my mind.'

'I see.' Said Mycroft acidly, 'and what, pray, are you deleting?'

'How should I know? I've deleted it.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, 'Oh really brother, there's no need-'

Now Sherlock's eyes flew open and looked directly at him. 'No news? Go away.'

This was pushing things a bit, but Mycroft had grown so accustomed to Sherlock's acerbic nature that he merely shrugged it off.

'I came to see how you were doing...' he began.

'Fine thank you.' came the curt reply. Damn it all, he had closed his eyes again.

Mycroft's eyes roamed the immediate area of the sofa, it wasn't until he reached the corner of the coffee table that he saw it; a tiny syringe, half empty, lying discarded but not forgotten. Mycroft's shoulder's slumped and he felt a small twinge of grief.

'Oh Sherlock.' He sighed, 'you promised Mummy you wouldn't.'

'To hell with Mummy.'

Okay, this was the last straw. It was bad enough Sherlock plugging his veins with Heaven knows what, but to completely disregard a promise to their mother was just plain nasty.

'I would have thought you'd be out there looking for Dr Watson rather than 'deleting'.' Mycroft remarked angrily. 'You have a funny way of caring-'

'I don't care about John Watson.' Sherlock snapped coldly.

'That's bollocks Sherlock and you know it!' Mycroft shot back. Harsh certainly, but it had the desired effect, Sherlock opened his eyes and lifted himself off the sofa. He glared at Mycroft, and his brother saw that his pupil's were dilated and unfocused, the sure sign of a high.

'Oh really?' Sherlock snarled, glaring hatefully at his brother. 'Let me tell you something, a year ago John Watson didn't exist to me, not even a blip on the radar. When...if Markin kills him, he'll just be another corpse, another body in the morgue. It's sad, but that's the way it is.'

Typical Sherlock. Mycroft felt his heart twist with pity as he saw the blazing turmoil in the pale eyes. He had only ever seen that look before, when their father had first told them about the cancer...

'Strange, that you should be destroying yourself over a blip.' he retorted cooly. He knew it was harsh, but experience had taught him to be blunt with Sherlock, dancing around with careful words wasn't going to do John Watson any good.

'I am not 'destroying myself' Mycroft.' Sherlock spat back, 'I'm creating space in my brain. Don't you understand? I need to THINK!'

The single word echoed eerily around the flat, bouncing off the bullet-riddled walls. Mycroft rolled his eyes; _that's quite enough sulking young man._

'While this is all very fine Sherlock' said Mycroft irritably, tapping his fingers on the sofa back, 'But could you be a little less melodramatic? You're giving me a headache.'

This earned him a glare from his brother, but Mycroft could tell he'd gotten through a little. Bending his head closer to Sherlock's, the elder Holmes spoke more softly than he'd done in years:

'Lockie please.' He whispered, using an old and abandoned nickname, Sherlock blinked owlishly at the term but made no attempt to answer back, so Mycroft pressed on. 'You've gotten through this before, you can get through it again. Your friend -and he is your friend, don't pretend any different- right now, is in danger and he needs you. He needs you _clean_. The police are trying but if you don't help there may be some almightly cock-up and John Watson won't come back. You're right, caring won't help save him, but action _will_.'

Bingo. A moisture began to brim in the depths of Sherlock's eyes, causing Mycroft to have two seperate reactions. One part piped up; _Oh no, don't cry. Please. You haven't cried since you were four...oh Sherlock I couldn't bear it, please don't cry..._

Another side of him cut across with a snarl; _Go ahead. Cry. Go on that's it...prove to me you can do it. Show me there's a human underneath..._

No tears came, and Mycroft wasn't quite certain how he felt about this. Running a hand through his hair he began to walk away.

'Wait.' The request came so suddenly Mycroft paused in his tracks. He turned to see Sherlock on his feet, eyes now clear and focused, holding the needle towards his brother.

'Take it away...' he said, clenching his jaw. He seemed to hesitate slightly before adding a quiet 'Please.'

Mycroft obliged. He would have Anthea dispose of it later. 'You know where to find me Sherlock, if you ever need-'

'I know. Thank you.'

On reflection, this was the closest the two brothers were ever likely to be again. They shared a quick nod and Mycroft was on his way. Sherlock followed him out of the window, all thoughts of self destruction gone. He couldn't be so selfish anymore, not now when John needed him...

_I will not lose you._

...

_This quickly descended into suckery. Sorry._

_Been swept off my feet, literally, with work the past few weeks. 'Bat Boy' was a comlete success! Now gotta focus on 'The Villain's Opera', so please forgive the gaps between updates._

_Next Chapter: Sherlock recieves another message, and John realises that it's no fun when your own brain cells gang up on you._


	8. Chapter 8

_FINALLY GOT MY SHERLOCK DVDS! You cannot comprehend the amount of pure fangirl glee I had :D Listening to the commentary for 'The Great Game', Mark Gatiss said that the climax scene at the swimming pool was filmed in Bedminster, Bristol. I live in the Knowle area...you know what this means? SHERLOCK WAS FILMED 5 MINUTES AWAY FROM MY HOUSE AND I NEVER KNEW!_

_*ahem * Sorry, back to the point:_

_..._

John's neck muscles were really starting to ache now, he had also long lost feeling in both of his arms. The lack of circulation had made his elevated limbs milky pale, but the angry livid bruises made his broken arm seem to swell twice it's normal size. The crippling hunger had once again set into his system and dehydration made him dizzy.

Sculptor had left, at least for a little while, and John would never, ever admit the sheer relief he felt. It made him sick, that such a tiny man could fill him with such unadulterated terror, Moriarty had frightened him, sure, but Sculptor had firmly lodged the image in his head that he was, in fact, John's nightmare incarnate.

With absoluetly perfect timing, he felt Sculptor's hands touch a piece of cloth to John's bleeding back gently.

'What are you doing?' John croaked, the sharpness ruined by his parched vocal chords failing to sound commanding. Sculptor didn't answer immediately, but continued to mop at John's blood. The silence irritated John through the pain, the soldier part of him always answered questions when asked, discipline and suchlike. He tried a different approach:

'Why are you doing this?'

Sculptor then walked round in front of him. John saw the cloth dangling from his hand, with a slight frown he recognised it as his pale blue shirt. So that's where it went.

'I do this for pleasure, for money,' Sculptor mused, chewing the inside of his lip in concentration, 'I do it because they ask me. I like to think of it as dishing out punishment.'

'You're punishing Sherlock.' John had had an inkling that this was to do with Markin's son, of course, Daddy Markin didn't like Sherlock taking down his boy. He was Markin's compensation, being taken down for revenge.

_Take down one of mine, I'll take down one of yours._

Sculptor shrugged, 'If that's they way you want to see it. Of course, I could be punishing you.'

John blinked, 'Me? Why?'

'Do you think you deserve to be punished? Have you sinned?'

Despite the urge to respond with a negative, John's mind quietly reminded him that he had been in the army, killed people...Great, that's all he needed. A sadist psychopath who was gonna spout religious damnation at him.

'Maybe I'm just punishing your stupidity,' Sculptor continued 'Did you really think hanging around with someone like Sherlock Holmes was a good idea?'

_YES._ John's mind readied a lot of responses to defend his friendship with Sherlock. It had been rocky sure, but John now had no doubt in his mind just how strong his loyalty to the consulting detective was. After all, he had killed a man in order to protect him less than 24 hours after first meeting him, he had followed him all over London at ungodly hours, even risked his own life to give Sherlock a chance to escape. He, John Watson, would gladly follow Sherlock Holmes to the depths of Hell and back.

_But would Sherlock do the same?_

John pondered this, he couldn't exactly imagine Sherlock being the selfless best pal. But he liked to think the man placed some value in him, he was out there right now looking for him wasn't he?

_Ummmm...Probably._

He became aware of Sculptor looking at him intently. He pushed all Sherlock related thoughts to the back of his mind to focus on the matter at present. Sculptor was holding a hammer and a syringe under the cloth of his shirt. Oh no.

'I'm going to let your arms down John.' Sculptor told him 'But you won't try and run.'

'Oh won't I?' John shot back without thinking, he knew this was a huge bloody mistake, as a small smile spread over the other's face as the hammer was withdrawn.

'I'm certain of it.'

John saw the hammer connect with his right knee almost as if in slow motion, he heard the shattering kneecap. A raw scream ripped at his throat and he sagged in an attempt to lessen the pain in his leg. His handcuffs were removed and he crumpled into a heap on the floor landing on his injured knee, which only made things worse. John rolled on the floor like some twat of a footballer who went off injured for a kicked shin. The scream ceased and his breath pushed it's way from his lungs in short whimpers.

Sculptor was right. He wouldn't try and run.

...

Lestrade looked up from his morning coffee. Not even 10 am and already a small domestic disturbance, a burglary AND some guy arrested for tax evasion. God he hated days like this. Despite putting one of his better teams onto the Watson search, he'd had no information as to the poor bastard's whereabouts. He'd tried to call in on Sherlock, but found him unreachable, not even answering texts. This was odd in and on itself, Lestrade suspected Sherlock could be tied to a weight suspended above an acid tank (with sharks in it, he fancied, mechanical sharks) with a bladed pendulum swinging and his hands about to be cut off and still find a way to text someone.

Lestrade quickly found texts wouldn't be necessary, as he heard Sherlock's characteristically soft footsteps enter his office. He studied the younger man's impassive face, there were no subtle signs of distress or any indication that anything was out of the ordinary. It was just another day.

'Has your team found anything?' Sherlock asked, removing his gloves. Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily.

'Not yet, but give them a chance.'

'Oh yes of course' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes ' As fine as your experts are, I've got a man on the search as well, maybe he'll get back to me quicker.'

'A ma-? For God's sake Sherlock! We're pretty capable of finding as missing person! It's our job! We're the fucking police!'

'And you're doing a fabulous job I must say.'

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue back but, in the back of his head he saw that there was no happy medium for Sherlock this time. He could understand the young man's anger at the police, although not completely excuse it. He had been through enough missing person cases to recognise the grief and fear that disguised itself as rage; looking for someone, something to blame for failing them. It was mildly unsettling to see such a flash of emotion from the office 'freak' then to have him revert straight back to the cold, impassive robot he'd always been.

Sherlock drummed his steepled fingers together underneath his chin. Annoying as Mycroft's call had been, it had helped enormously. Although he'd never admit it of course. It had taken Sherlock years to throw off the drugs, even thinking about his little slip-up made him shudder.

'But as I said, Ruard's put his best man onto it, I believe John may be being held underground, not a warehouse, Mycroft would have seen it on his cameras. Maybe an abandoned cellar. I need you to give me a list of any unused storage facilities, of the Victorian variety.'

Lestrade took all this in. He wasn't going to bother asking how Sherlock knew this; it was far too early to try and keep up with the man's 'deductions'.

'Er...would you like a coffee...or something?' He asked lamely, desperatley trying to fill the void of conversation usually filled by John. Sherlock glanced at him, wearing his 'don't be nice to me' expression.

'No thank you. Is it okay if I wait here for a few hours?'

'You never normally ask, but fine. Can I ask why?'

'Markin told me to wait for another message, so here I am.'

...

'Do you know what this is?' Sculptor hissed, grabbing a fistful of John's hair and yanking his face upwards. He was waving the syringe in front of his eyes, and John struggled to focus on the pale liqiud inside.

'This is a very special drug of my own concoction.' The man told him pleasantly. 'A little dream juice for you. The main ingredients are LSD and Rohypnol. You know the effects of both I'm sure.'

John did know, but something inside his head told him that he was about to find out first hand. Parts of his mind pleaded, panic-stricken, for him to try and avoid it. A tiny voice in his head had one brief, clear thought: _This won't be fun._

'Thanks for the shirt Johnny.' Sculptor was saying 'I think Sherlock will find it quite interesting.'

The needle slid into the soft skin of his neck, releasing the drug into his system. The hand holding him let go, and John slumped onto the floor once again. In a matter of minutes the effects began to take place. As the world swam before him, John felt a bizarre sense of contentment; a cold knowledge that whatever he was going through, the drug would make sure it wouldn't last much longer. Shadows at the corner of his vision clenched and twisted, dancing and creeping before his eyes. It was almost a relief when he surrendered to darkness once more.

...

Anderson flicked through the newspaper, throwing Sherlock glares of dislike every now and again. The Freak was sat still and regal in the corner of the office. As much as he hated the man, Anderson couldn't help but notice how unhealthy Sherlock looked, and he was sorely tempted to shove a bacon sandwich down his throat. He couldn't find it in himself to deliver some sarcastic comment, in all truth, he felt a little sorry for the man. He and Donovan had a little agreement, made the day before after a particularly energetic session between the bedsheets; they wouldn't act on their dislike for a while, not with the man's only friend missing and probably hurt.

Not that he couldn't shoot non-verbal hatred at him of course.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the clock, determined not to look at Anderson or any other person in the building. He couldn't take it, the looks of sympathy and pointed silences which conveyed the 'I'm sorry for your loss' messages. John was not dead.

_Don't pity me. Don't you dare pity me. I'm not the one that's been kidnapped._

At 1pm, a few hours after Sherlock entered the building, a young woman knocked softly on the door, Lestrade at her heels.

'Umm...there's a package for you Mr Holmes, um Sir.' she stammered, timidly holding out a clumsily wrapped parcel.

Sherlock stood up and Anderson put away his newspaper, clearly interested. Sherlock took the package and promptly turned his back on the girl, who hurried out. Lestrade and Anderson hovered behind his back, craning their necks to see.

'What is it?' Lestrade asked.

'Markin's second message.' Sherlock answered, talking more to himself than anyone else. It was a nondespcript bundle, nothing extraordinary about it, but a signature of sorts had been scrawled onto the brown paper in biro. It wasn't John's handwriting, Sherlock instantly recognised it as Markin's own.

_TO SHERLOCK HOLMES. YOUR BOYFRIEND GIVES HIS REGARDS x._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Seriously, what was it about John and him that made people jump to the conclusion that they were together? If John never noticed the way he looked at him, or the way his breath caught when John brushed past him, then why could everyone else?

Pushing the thought away he tore open the parcel. A shirt tumbled onto the desk top.

A light blue shirt. The cuffs frayed slightly. John's shirt. There was still a faint trace of John's cologne on it, Sherlock noted, but the fact it was covered in dark red blood took control of his observations.

'It's not torn...the blood was added later.' He said haltingly. A muscle underneath his eye twitched and he blinked rapidly. He told himself not to cry, he didn't cry, not for anything. Sherlock heard Lestrade mutter 'Christ' behind him, and Anderson swallow rapidly. Sherlock felt his stomach tighten into a little knot of anger. How dare they? How DARE they make his John suffer like this?

_Woah woah woah hang on. 'Your' John? What right do I have to consider him mine?_

'Why would they do this?' Lestrade wondered aloud. Sherock faced him and stared, incredulous.

'Well, we arrested Markin's son. Less than 48 hours later John is kidnapped by his father's gang. Why do _you _think they're doing this?'

Lestrade gaped, and Anderson's eyes flitted uncomfortably between the two of them. Sherlock turned his back on them, his point made. A tiny tremor was going in his hand, he clenched the fabric of John's shirt tightly to settle it, anger and uselessness welled up inside him, and he slammed the cloth onto the desk's surface. Some of the blood was still damp on the shirt, added recently. Sherlock felt a queasy tint of relief. John was still alive...well, he was a while ago. _Don't think about that, if John was dead I'd know. Isn't that what happens in those crappy films he watches? I'd know if he was dead..._

_..._

The hands were everywhere. Clammy, scabbed and rotten hands were groping at his upper arms, legs and were clawing at his naked chest. A dark shape loomed over him menacingly and he could hear gunfire and screaming in the background.

John was not having a good time. He had tried to tell himself he was halluncinating, for indeed he was. But the Rohypol made his movement sluggish and slow, his mind was truly disorientated. The world was spinning horribly.

_'Snot real...'_ he told himself _'Sa hallusnation...'_

'Are you aware you're talking aloud?' said the dark shape above him, the voice soft and low. There was something familiar about it, John couldn't place it, no matter how hard he wracked his poor, drug-addled brains.

_'M'not'_ John argued back, words slurring over each other _'Dreemin.'_

The shape leant forward. The face shocked John. It was pale, aquiline and had the best damn cheekbones John had ever seen, the glacial eyes peered at him through the darkness.

Sherlock.

Sherlock knelt next to him, the lamplight shining through the ends of his curls, tinting them a deep brown.

_'Wait...Shulluck's hair's nuh brown...' _he mused groggily _'Sa navy cullor, bluey.'_

'You dream of him?' Sherlock smiled like a knife. 'Interesting.'

The hands doubled their grip,which was bizarre, it wasn't like John had any strength to fight back.

Sherlock was directly above him now, one hand resting on John's bruised and battered chest. There was something...wrong with him. The face was wrong. The eyes were too narrow. But it was Sherlock, he'd come for him, just like he said.

'Do you know what you mean to Sherlock?' Sherlock asked, leaning close to John's ear, 'I think it, he thinks it, everyone you know thinks it, what do you mean?'

John's brain couldn't completely process this; all he cared about that Sherlock had returned to take him home.

_'We nee' cheesecake.'_ he told him, Sherlock laughed coldly.

'I will tell you what you are.'

A sharp pain cut through John's messed up consious. More blood leaked out his torn skin over Sherlock's white hands. Sherlock grasped the scalpel like a pro. No, please no...not Sherlock. Why was Sherlock hurting him?

_'Shulluk pleeze...' _ he whimpered _'Don't.'_

The pain dulled after each stroke and pretty soon the Rohypnol took control of the LSD, John sank into the darkness, tears trickling down his face. The betrayal was worse than the pain or the dizziness. Why had Sherlock, the man he trusted above all else, whom he'd gladly sacrifice everything for...why had he hurt him.

The darkness enveloped him again. John was too hurt to care.

...

_Why do I torture these characters so? I have no idea._

_Sorry, I'm bad at writing halluncinations, but hopefully it came across okay :)_

_Next chapter: The violence comes to a head, Ruard returns and Sculptor decides to quote Ghandi._

_See you soon x_


	9. Chapter 9

_How are you all my dears? Keeping busy? Just had 3 different shows in 4 weeks, so I have been working my proverbial off and must apologize (again) for the long gaps between updates. Now I just have to catch up on the massive amount of coursework set for me to do in between shows :)_

_I don't think my lecturer's were happy with me filling up my portfolio with Sherlock fanart _* innocent whistling*

...

Sculptor inspected his nails dispassionatley, John Watson's blood caking the skin a dull reddish brown. Thank God he'd been payed in advance by Mr Markin, he wouldn't have liked to ask for an extended contract. The soldier was lasting longer than expected, resisting any attempts Sculptor had made to completely break him. He was actually pretty impressed with the fact Johnny hadn't died yet. Usually one of his projects wasted away from blood loss, John had even remained somewhat lucid through the drug treatment. Who would have known that a hardy and brave tough-guy was hiding beneath that dull, gentlemanly exterior?

Sculptor was an Expert. It was the pride he held in his work that cause him to christen it with the capital letter. He knew how deep to cut, how long scars would last and how bad they would look.

The scars on Johnny's back from the rolling pin would last several years, maybe even into middle age. However, the latest carving would be permanent, a lasting reminder should the man survive. It was a nice touch, he felt, that it personified little John Watson's fears and worries, and was now chiseled in his chest for all to see. He could have gone with something simpler, something vague and nasty. But this, he considered, really drove the point home.

A small whimper from the far side of the room alerted him to John's presence. The other man was curled up in a little ball, staring blankly at the floor. The big one was coming up, and Sculptor felt it only polite to allow the soldier a little time to recover before they started.

John pressed his palms to the cuts on his chest, feeling absoluetly rotten. He just wanted to sleep, hunger and thirst be damned. He just wanted to close his eyes, float away and never return.

He knew it hadn't been Sherlock, even whilst it was happening, he knew, deep down, this wasn't the man he knew, this wasn't _Sherlock_. Still, the utter, utter betrayal he still felt squashed any certainty left in him. Maybe Sherl-_Sculptor_ was right, maybe that was what the detective thought of him. The gashes stood out scarlet against his white and bruised skin, spidery cuts written in a style usually seen on the cover of DVDs for horror films:

**W O R T H L E S S**

He was. He wasn't important, or even mediocre, he wasn't even worth the trouble these people had gone to.

_Oh God LISTEN to yourself! You sound like a bloody emo teenager! Where's the John Watson Sherlock's searching for? Isn't he still inside me somewhere? _

He pulled himself together, gritting his teeth. He no longer had the will nor the strength to satnd, or even sit up. It was taking all his self control- excercised by his years in the army- to keep his eyes open.

_I just want to go home. I want to watch shitty telly with whilst Sherlock tells me how boring life is. I want Sherlock to steal my laptop and mess up the kitchen. I want Mrs Hudson to remind him she's not our housekeeper. I want to hear that damn violin playing at the small hours of the morning. I want to be out of milk and to moan at Sherlock for not looking after himself. I just want Sherlock to throw some stealthy insult at me and my stupidity. I just want Sherlock..._

'Johnny?' came a silky voice behind him. For Pete's sake, why couldn't the bastard just leave him alone?

He would have dearly loved to tell Sculptor to piss off. But he found that he just couldn't even drag up enough energy to open his mouth much. He settled for a grunt instead, hopefully directing all his hatred and fear into the single guttural sound.

'Can you stand?' Sculptor asked. The apparently genuine concern and tenderness made John's skin crawl. _Fuck off, leave me alone, just let me sleep. Please._ If his fingers weren't so clawed and tense, balled into fists against his chest, he would have at least attempted to flick Sculptor the 'V' sign. Pathetically, he just lay there, allowing the other man to apporach softly and crouch down beside him. The gentle hands on his upper arms felt horribly welcome. John was sick to the stomach, craving such a touch. The last time someone had given a friendly touch was the other day when Sherlock had patted his shoulder saying 'good man John.' The memory made John's shoulder feel warm. Sculptor's hands were deftly stroking him, as a mother would check on a feverish toddler.

'Are you okay to stand?' came the question again, Sculptor's lips were inches from John's ears and the latter flinched, his personal space well and truly invaded. When John gave no answer, the man above him sighed.

'Oh well, we may as well do it the other way.' he called over his shoulder 'PETE!'

Less than a few minuets later, heavy footsteps thundered into the room and Pete's large hands grabbed him, considerably rougher and less tender than Sculptor's. Apparently Pete didn't give two hoots about John's comfort.

John experienced the sensation of being lifted, Pete put one hand under his legs and held him like a baby. Through his bleary eyes John saw the entrance to what he had dubbed 'The Main Chamber', it was of a Victorian flavour, heavy arched and cobblestones. In the distance he could hear traffic and the sounds of London passing by.

_THAT'S how close I am? I could cry for help...oh don't be so ruddy stupid, no-one could hear you from in here._

He was dumped into a rickety chair, the force making his head loll backward. Terry Markin was stood, all nonchalance, beside him.

'Don't worry John. I've hurt Sherlock all I want now.'

John drew a breath and found his voice.

'If you've touched him-' he began to snarl, knowing how ineffectual his threat would be, what harm could he do know? Beaten and bleeding, a weak little victim who couldn't overpower a little girl at the moment, let alone a group of fully grown men.

'No need to panic, we didn't do anything physically.' Markin smiled coldly. His hand grasped John underneath the chin, forcing his face upwards. John threw the best 'I fart in your general direction' glare he could manage at him.

Sculptor trailed into the room behind everyone, eyes shining with unbridled glee. Suddenly John didn't feel as brave as he would have liked, and shrank back a little in the chair. _Pathetic._

The two men, Markin and Sculptor, put John in mind of looking up at the dentist while he scraped away at your molars. The other gang members in the back were blurred, but all looked more menacing than an angry darts player loitering outside a pub during his fag break.

Markin redoubled his grip on John's face, and John sensed that he should twist his face away, especially since Sculptor looked as though Christmas came early this year. He tried to do so, but Markin just forced him back so hard John felt his neck crick.

'It's nothing personal you see, not for me anyway.' Sculptor told him casually, stroking John's face. 'But Mr Markin is very specific when it comes to this. Isn't it as Ghandi said? _An eye for an eye-'_

John knew. He'd seen it ever since Sculptor wlatzed into the room, and he had chosen to ignore it. He knew what was going to happen, and, in a blind panic, he began to beg.

'NO!' he pleaded desperatley, struggling against Markin, 'No please! I-I'll do anything! P-Please! Oh God. Please don't!...' He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing how pointless it was going to be.

'-_And we'll all be blind.'_ Sculptor finished wickedly, grinning at John's impending pain. He fucking LOVED his job.

A vicious second later and John's screams tore his world apart.

...

Ruard was running. The motion was causing his glasses to slip down his nose and he was pushing them back up every few seconds. He knew he musn't delay even for a second, every moment was crucial. He didn't want to let Monsieur Holmes down.

...

Sherlock was pacing. It was getting very annoying for Lestrade and Anderson.

'Why can't he just stay the hell still?' Anderson fumed. Lestrade just told him to shut it.

'I'm getting impatient Lestrade.' Sherlock reported to the Inspector, it took every conceivable ounce of self-control for Lestrade not to tug at his hair in frustration.

'So am I Sherlock.' he snapped back. 'We're doing everything we possibly can.'

Sherlock repressed the urge to scoff with tremendous difficulty. For all their 'best', the best part of a week had flown by and still no sign of John. Sherlock had a sneaky suspicion his friend was closer than they thought, that he was still in this part of London.

Anderson shifted slightly in his seat, Sherlock's reserve snapped, and he wheeled round to face him.

'Don't you have some crime scene to lord over?' he demanded angrily. Anderson's face froze. For a moment nothing happened then the man stomped out the room, muttering something under his breath that sounded horribly like 'I just want to help.'

Sherlock blinked. He just left? Really? Not even so much as a fight?

'There was no need for that.' Lestrade chided him when Anderson had left. Sherlock glared, it was such an intense glare Lestrade was surprised he didn't burn to a crisp. The taller man then sighed and rubbed his forehead.

'I need some air.' He said, to no-one in particular. Lestrade didn't even try to stop him as he strode past.

...

'Watch it!' shouted the woman, holding her chubby arms aloft to keep herself from falling over. Ruard didn't notice, he raced down the street, weaving in and out of passers-by and knocking into a few. Sometimes he shouted an apology over his shoulder, but other times he just kept on running. Racing across a zebra crossing he nearly got bumped by a speeding youth in a mini. The lactic acid build-up in his legs made them stiff and painful but he kept running. A man's life hang in the balance.

...

The air, Sherlock decided, wasn't really worth the fuss. It wasn't doing anything particularly useful to lift his mood. Rather, feeling the cold air whip underneath his collar and penetrate the warm fibres of his coat, it was making him feel a tiny bit worse. Iron grey coulds were streaked acrodd the sky, heavy with unreleased rain. Sherlock gave it a few hours before it would start to drizzle. This was what John called 'muzzy' weather.

Sherlock took a deep breath, out of necessity rather than anything else. The sounds of London passed by before him, taxis and buses zipped past, their engine noises littering the hubbub of people sauntering by. He lookd at them; a teenager whom it was obvious was preoccupied about the possibility he'd gotten his girlfriend pregant, a young woman chatting away on her phone about something our Chanel said, a little old man- head bobbing with palsy- hobbling down to his nearest Ladbrokes. Sherlock wondered about the public going about their lives, did they have a John Watson to care about? Did they have a Sherlock Holmes to follow about?

God he needed a cigarette.

He closed his eyes. His mind raced through his predicament.

Problem: John  
Details: John has been kidnapped. Thugs have hated me for a while. Revenge wanted.  
_Why John?_

Theory: John is my only friend. I feel more for him than my own brother. I don't care for anyone else but John. Markin wants the person I am most attached to. They did this because I-

_Oh._

Sherlock didn't have much time to ponder this strange conclusion thanks to the sudden arrival of an out of breath blonde Frenchman colliding somewhat heavily into his side.

'Monsieur Holmes!' Ruard gasped, grabbing Sherlock's sleeves eagerly. 'Your friend! Come right away! Your friend! Your Watson!'

'What?' Sherlock half-shouted, trying to calm the man down long enough to speak clearly. Not an easy task, Arthur Ruard was smiling like a lunatic.

'I know where he is!' came the excited and breathless reply.

Sherlock could have kissed him. He briefly considered a peck on the cheek, as was customary in Ruard's homeland. Instead, he opted for grasping the other's upper arms and matching the triumphant smile.

'Excellent!' he cried, turning back to shout for Lestrade. In a matter of seconds the grey-haired man rushed through thre door.

'What is it? Have they found him?' Lestrade practically absorbed the urgency in the air.

'Yes!' Sherlock brought his levity under control as the possibilities crashed upon him. 'Bring your best squad and bring an ambulance. I fear John's going to need one.'

Lestrade was already demanding a police quad, several cars were ready in minutes.

'Lead on.' Sherlock told Ruard, hoping with every scrap of his being that it wasn't too late.

...

_You ask, I deliver, Sherlock's finally getting his arse in gear._

_2 updates in 2 days? I must be getting creative :) I wrote this during a dress rehearsal in the dark, so apologies for any errors you may find, I couldn't see the keyboard very well XD_

_Next chapter: The group find John. What they see chills them all. Needless to say, Sherlock is NOT too happy._

_See you soon :) x_


	10. Chapter 10

_Cookies will be teleported to those who guessed at my diabolical plot event! Hmmm, maybe I should have been a bit more subtle about it all..._

_This was written whilst listening to 'O Fortuna', it just made it a lot more epic :D_

_Oh and yes, Ruard WAS heavily influenced by Aziraphale from 'Good Omens', you know who you are._

_Feel free to translate Ruard's French, it might make it funnier :)_

_..._

Everyone was panicking. They'd never panicked before, but that French arse-licker had called the entire fucking squad on them. He knew they'd been shopped when little Abbie came rushing through, yelling about coppers and that the quiet bloody Frenchman was the dickhead that did it. He'd yelled at them to leg it, they'd find another base later, they hadn't been traced so far. Where the police would be, that faggot Holmes wouldn't be far behind.

'Move!' he roared at a timid young newbie, who promptly fled along with Pete and the others.

'What about 'im?' asked one of them, nodding at the floor. Markin didn't spare any glances.

'Leave him, with any luck he'll die before they get here.' He told them, pulling up his collar so as to better hide his face outdoors. 'Just move.'

...

Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees, staring out the taxi's window as if he could make the world speed up just by glaring. Ruard was sat in the passenger seat, gabbling instructions at the driver rapidly, sometimes forgetting himself and slipping into his native language before correcting himself.

'Can't this thing go any faster?' Sherlock snarled, Ruard pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his nose wretchedly.

'Have you seen the coppers behind me mate? Whole bloody pack of 'em, more than me life's worth to get done for speedin'' grunted the driver.

'They're with us you idiot!' Sherlock yelled, 'I'll bail you out if they give you a ticket just MOVE!'

'_Mère de Dieu que vous êtes grognon aujourd'hui. Je vous jure de vous regarder la télévision anglaise trop bien.' _Ruard sighed, placing his fingertips to his temple. 'Left here please, do as he says... _Je ne peux pas gérer plus de cette merde._...'

The cab turned a corner and the driver accelerated warily, Sherlock made a 'it's fine' gesture over his shoulder to the police officer driving the car directly behind them.

...

Everything fell silent. Thank God. The world around him stilled as the footsteps retreated into the darkness. The sounds of the world outside dimmed and he sank down into a safe little world inside himself. In a world where not even Sculptor could touch him, he gladly fell into oblivion.

...

After much swearing and frustration, the cab managed to race through a set of traffic lights dead set on making things worse for them. Sherlock was more restless than he'd ever been in his entire life, fingers entwining with anything he could get his hands on, his scarf, his own hair, the seatbelt. Despite them not telling the driver a word about the situation, it was as though the urgency and panic was contagious, as the driving became more erratic and no more attention was being paid to speed limits. To stop himself destroying something out of irritation, Sherlock's fingers flew over the keypad of his phone:

_Mycroft: Found him. Please alert Harry Watson and Sarah Parker. -SH_

He pocketed the phone, no doubt Mycroft would understand. This was taking forever! All he wanted was to find John as get him as safe and sound as humanly possible. If John needed medical attention- as he surely would- then Sherlock wanted to make sure his friend got the best care in London, expenses be damned. Hell, John would recieve hospital care even if Sherlock had to make bandages himself. Ruard glanced at him helplessly, a gleam of reassurance shining through the concern. Sherlock swallowed and returned to staring worriedly out the window, watching London stream by.

Suddenly, in haste and excitement, Ruard began to slap the driver on the shoulder and pointing down a little turn-off into an alleyway.

'There! There!_ Rapide!_ Go go! There!'

Sherlock's own hand had flown to his seatbelt, opening it with a swift click. As the taxi rolled into a stop, Sherlock, abandoning any sense of safety, was practically jumping out the car. Ruard passed the money to the driver, thanking him and told him to keep the change. The chubby man's face frowned as he saw three police cars and an ambuance squeeze their way down the tiny street. Never in his life had he been part of such a palaver.

'Do ya want me to hang about?' he asked the blonde man, Ruard shook his head.

'No thank you Monsieur, you have done enough.' He said, his voice grave, 'We will make our own way back, _merci_ once again Monsieur, _merci.'_

With that, he ran to catch up with Sherlock, who was restlessly pacing up and down the alleyway whilst the driver took off. Two men accompanied Lestrade out of the first police car. One of them was Anderson, who had volunteered just in case a second pair of hands was needed. Sherlock frowned slightly at the other, blinking as the man walked towards him.

'Dimmock?' he asked, the Detective Inspector nodded grimly.

The two of them had never exactly seen eye-to-eye, what with Sherlock being his arrogant self and Dimmock being a stickler for rules. The Inspector had been less than welcoming during the case John had christened 'The Blind Banker'. However, the man had warmed to Sherlock and John after the issue and parted ways with Sherlock following in John's footsteps, giving his loyalty to the world's only Consulting Detective.

_I go where you point me._

Suddenly Sherlock saw it; four men were stood practically in a line facing him, three of which he tolerated (if disliked immensly) and one whom he was on friendly terms with. Ruard, Dimmock, Anderson and Lestrade, four leuitenants awaiting orders from their general. He didn't have friends, had no peers save John, he was not the sort of person who deserved heroics from ordinary people. And yet here they were.

'Where to Arthur?' He asked croakily, Ruard pointed to a little rotten door. It was so bleak and grimy you would be forgiven for passing it by.

'It's the entrance to an old storage cellar.' Ruard was saying, 'Churches used it to store books.'

A policeman Sherlock vaguely recognised as 'First-Timer' approached the door, truncheon in hand. Sherlock smiled, his nose was still out of joint where George Markin had punched him during the arrest...it seemed so long ago.

Lestrade nodded and First-Timer (now the newly christened Broken Nose) signalled for him and the rest of his team to break down the door. To everyone's amazement, the door was unlocked, and flew open easily.

'Unlocked?' came Sally Donovan's voice, Sherlock started, he hadn't noticed her arrival.

'Alright everybody, proceed with caution.' Lestrade told them all. Sherlock promptly ignored him and hurried inside.

It was a cellar all right, dusty and cold. The bare stone walls were slightly damp with the humidity outside. Sherlock felt a few paramedics squeeze past him, one cringing at the moss about the walls base. The smell of damp was almost metallic.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock glanced back at Lestrade, who was fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket. The grey haired man cleared his throat and refused to look at him.

'Er... what if he's-'

'He's not.' Sherlock cut in sharply, perhaps a little harsher than the question credited. But bollocks if he was going to admit that he was scared to death of losing his flatmate, maybe he was just trying to convince himself more than anyone else in the vicinity, maybe he was indulging in a bit of wishful thinking, but the sheer conviction in his voice caused Lestrade to nod in acknowledgement.

'Here! I've found him!' came a paramedic's voice.

Sherlock turned on his heel and bolted to the direction of the voice, he skidded to a halt when he came to the doorway of a chamber.

On the floor, next to a fallen chair in the middle room, face down, was a man covered in blood.

_No._

'JOHN!' Sherlock cried, starting forward. He was unsuccseful in his attempt to reach his friend by the arrival of about five other paramedics. Sherlock became aware of a pair of arms holding him back, stopping him from barging through the gaggle of people surrounding John.

'Mr Watson? John? Can you hear us John?' someone was saying, gently touching John's blood covered arm. Sherlock could see numerous gashes pitting John's skin. Desperatley, he tried wrenching free of Lestrade's grip, but to no avail.

'Let them do their job.' He told Sherlock quietly. Sherlock nodded numbly, his eyes fastened onto the sticky red liquid shining darkly in the gloom.

John. His sweet John Watson, was lying still enough to pass for dead._ Please, please please please don't be dead._

'He's lost a lot of blood, we also need oxygen. Can you hear me John?' All these medical phrases and questions echoed eerily around the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls.

As medical equipment was being ferried down into the room, one medic gingerly nudged John's raw shoulder.

'We need to turn him over, but his kneecap's broken. Help me.'

_Broken kneecap. He wouldn't have been able to walk let alone run._Sherlock could only watch as a small group of men and women gently roll the injured man onto his back.

Almost at once, a cry escaped one woman's lips as she jerked her arms away. Anderson swore in disgust and there was the unmistakable sound of someone quietly retching in the background. Donovan stumbled back and gasped in barely contained horror. Sherlock craned his neck to see, and froze at what met his gaze:

The entire left side of John's face was drenched in blood. A horrific, gaping hole where his eye should be.

Sherlock's knees almost gave way. A sickening rush filled his head and his vision went a little blurred, which he blinked away. He felt a crippling cold in his veins, making him shiver slightly, it had nothing to do with the low temperature of their location. To his immense shame, Sherlock's jaw dropped and no amount of effort could make him close it. For the first time in precisely 17 years; the great Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

The suddenly,the world started moving again. More medics swarmed around John, obstructing Sherlock's view. As for Sherlock, the fact he couldn't see the man spurred him into action again, and he renewed his attempts to free himself from Lestrade, shouting John's name over and over again, possibly believing he could wake the other man up by calling him back from the depths of unconsiousness.

'John! John Watson! It's me, Sherlock! John I'm here! I'm here John! We've got you! John!'

Lestrade grimaced, none of the culprits were here, it was obvious they were long gone. He couldn't keep his grip much longer, the taller man was stronger than he looked, and he was bordering on hysterical, twisting and pulling his body away from Lestrade's arms. Lestrade was angry. He'd seen this sort of crimes before, he'd seen even worse, but this was different. This was someone he knew. He thought of the John Watson he knew; gruff, polite and comforting. He thought of the calming influence he had on Sherlock. An veteran soldier and a doctor, someone so dignified and so important to civilian society did not deserve this. Bleeding, broken and close to death. No wonder Sherlock was panicking, he didn't know the man as well as Sherlock, but he really wanted the guy to pull through.

At last, Sherlock tore himself free of the Detective Inspector and rushed to the flock of medics crowding his friend. John's face was covered with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and an ice-pack and bandages were being pressed gently onto the exposed eye socket. John's breathing was too shallow, too rapid to be anything remotely near comforting, but it did make Sherlock giddy with relief to know that John was, in fact, alive.

It took a full 10 minutes for John to be carried to the ambulance, and it didn't take much for Sherlock to convince the paramedics to climb into the small space with them. Glancing back he saw Ruard, pale and shocked, hovering on the curb near a police car. Their eyes met and Sherlock gave a small nod. It was a nod full of non-verbal messages: _Thank you, I'll let you know, you can you. _Ruard seemed to get them loud and clear, for he nodded in reply and shakily polished his glasses on his coat sleeve. No doubt Lestrade would bug him for information if he didn't leave soon.

Sherlock switched his attention back to John, who was now fixed to a heart monitor. Shock was a heavy risk now, and John's feet were elevated using pillows, he stared at the unconsious man now being prodded and poked by doctors, tubes sticking horribly out of his arms. It hurt, deep down, to see his friend like this, to see him lying so fragile, crammed into the back of an ambulance. But all the same, Sherlock's heart- the one he never admitted to having- lifted at the sheer fact John was here, with him.

_I'm here John, this will never happen again._

...

_Gah! I really didn't know how to wrap up this chapter, hopefully it's decent enough :3_

_Everyone having fun?_

_Next chapter: Was this a coma? It was way too noisy..._


	11. Chapter 11

_* slams head on keyboard * Sorry to have kept you waiting._

_Benedict Cumberbatch in 'The War Horse' and Martin Freeman in 'The Hobbit'? I think I just exploded from the prospect :D_

_I'm also toying with the idea of giving these chapters title names, what would you think?_

_I now realise I made a horrible mistake in an earlier chapter of mistaking Martin Freeman's eyes for brown, they are in fact deep blue. Stupid me. Well, seeing as I found out my error halfway through writing this, I will not correct myself (wouldn't make much sense would it?) so, for this story, John's eyes are brown. Can you forgive me?_

_..._

The world was black, and the left side ached horribly. There was absolutely nothing but a still, silent void. He felt content, almost peaceful here, his only concern was how to stop the faint noises that broke the silence occasionally.

_John Watson! It's me, Sherlock! John I'm here!_

Poor man. He would gladly tell the voice that there wasn't anyone here but him, but nothing in his power could make his eyes open or mouth move. The voice seemed to take the hint though; it faded away.

_Sirens._

Couldn't the noise go away? It was really irritating, a high pitched wailing ruining his perfect void. After a short while, after a small lifting sensation, he heard a clunk and all the noises ceased.

For a long time there was nothing, then he heard another voice. A different voice, it sounded like a woman's.

_Where is he? John! I want to see my brother!_

That's two. Two people looking for John, he must be a popular bloke, if all these people want him.

_...Needs emergency surgery._

Surgery? Did he need surgery? Oh god he hoped they wouldn't take off his hands...he needed them...he was a sculptor...

Everything faded,nothing reigned once more.

...

Sherlock, deep deep down, loathed hospitals. Ever since John had been rushed into surgery to try and save his ruined eye Sherlock had to endure a distraught and hysterical Harry (who later stormed off, claiming she 'needed a drink'), two hours of pacing, a very uncomfortable attempt to comfort a sobbing Sarah and was now staring moodily at a poster telling him to floss. A few orderlies aside, very few people walked down the little corridor, and the silence made Sherlock feel oddly abandoned.

John was still in the operating theatre, Sherlock didn't want to ponder about what sort of poking, prodding and scraping his friend was being subjected to. His mind ticked along like well oiled clockwork, deciding how best to find Markin now.

'Coffee?' came a familiar voice, and a styrofoam cup was shoved under his nose. Sherlock took it, but didn't answer as the voice's owner sat a few seats to his left.

'He'll live' Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella with his hand. 'I've secured him a private room for recovery and there's a therapist ready and waiting should he recquire one.'

'You don't hang about do you?' Sherlock croaked, still staring at the dental health poster.

'What can I say?, it's a trait we share.'

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the wall and looked at his brother. Mycroft was sat nonchalantly, one leg resting on the other. He seemed to have lost a bit of weight since Sherlock last saw him, probably a result of his yo-yoing weight problem.

'Why're you here Mycroft?' he asked cooly, 'Don't you have some third world country to bully?'

Mycroft pulled a face, it was his 'Shut up or I'll tell Mummy you boiled the cat' look. He cleared his throat and made himself more comfortable in the plastic seating.

'He's strong you know,' Mycroft began after a while, 'John. A soldier remember? He's going to pull through. Besides, you didn't think I wouldn't secure the best doctors did you?'

Sherlock honestly didn't, however much he disliked his brother, he did respect his influence over the working world.

'Why?' he asked, only to fill the readful silence he had been sitting in for the best part of an hour.

'Because, contrary to poular belief, I know you care about him. I also care for John Watson, he's a good man to you.'

Sherlock was at a loss as to why his brother was saying these things, it wasn't going to make anyone feel any better. Here where two fully grown men stumbling through a conversation that would be awkward for any normal man, but they were the Holmes brothers, which just made this seven and a half times worse.

'When I first met him I offered him money to spy on you, you know?' Mycroft told him, dusting off his already immaculate lapel.

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, 'Let's be honest, it's not the first time you've tried.'

'Hmm, quite. He refused of course, completely refused outright. Claimed he wasn't interested.'

Sherlock swallowed and shakily sipped his coffee, black with two sugars, just the way he liked it. It was a bog standard vending machine coffee, not the rich, slightly nutty sort John sometimes made for him. Although, he supposed this was Mycroft trying to be a supportive elder brother. Not the best attempt perhaps, but Sherlock felt glad of the company.

'That took courage Sherlock,' Mycroft continued, watching his brother carefully, 'There's not many who would turn down a sum like that. He didn't even consider taking it. He's loyal, Sherlock. I had a theory that he could either be the making of you, or make you worse than ever.'

Sherlock still didn't reply, but shot a poisonous look at his brother, who had now taken up Sherlock's job of staring at the poster.

Mycroft smiled slightly, 'He managed to do both. Very clever.'

'How do you mean?' Sherlock interrupted, gripping the coffee cup with one hand, feeling the heat burn his hand.

'I mean,' Mycroft sighed, with the air of an exasperated nanny, 'That he pulls the best and worst out of you. You would never make friends before, John awakened you emotionally. But look at you, he's hurt and it makes you paranoid and dare I say, a little afraid?'

There were some glorious times when Sherlock could have really given his brother a right hook to the face, this was one of those times. Were it not for the fact Mycroft could ban him from the ward, he would have done. Sherlock settled for glaring at Mycroft, who carefully ignored him.

'We've caught a whiff of Moriarty in Venice, if you're still interested.' Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella again. Sherlock twitched his head slightly at Moriarty's name, and he stored the information in a mental file titled THE SECOND ROUND. The psychopathic Irishman had certainly been getting around in the months since the bombing, Mycroft's people had been catching little glimpses and hearing little rumours from around the entire globe. This could be interesting.

'Thank you, but not really my main concern right now.' Sherlock answered.

Mycroft shrugged and continued his umbrella-twirling, which was really starting to piss Sherlock off. He sipped the coffee again, savouring the bitter aftertaste.

A portly, middle aged doctor rounded the corner and stopped when he reached both men. Sweat was shining on his balding head and his red cheeks were puffed out as he exhaled.

'Ah, Mr Holmes, I'm Dr Hardwicke.' He said, glancing at them from his clipboard, Sherlock instantly stood up, as did Mycroft. The doctor blinked, piggy eyes peering at Sherlock's worried expression.

'How is he?' The question was soft, the deep voice trembled slightly. Hardwicke had heard the question so many times over the years, this was no different. Concern, fear and grief made everyone sound like that.

'He'll be alright.' he said, seeing the young man's entire form relax, like some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Reading off the sheet, he told the two men of the patient's state;

'We managed to salvage the left eyelid, but we couldn't save the eye, he's very lucky the blade hadn't gone deeper, it could have penetrated his brain. One broken arm and a shattered kneecap, he may need a wheelchair for a while. A small infection where he'd been lying in the dirt, nothing a few antibiotics can't handle. There are 107 cuts on his back, we've stitched up the worst. The cuts on his chest will leave permanent scarring, nothing we can do about that. There's a few cracked ribs, so he's strapped up for that. Lots of cuts and bruises, he's been beaten up, pretty badly too. We had to stitch up the lower lip, he'll most likely have a scar there too. He's badly dehydrated, and starvation's made his stomach shrink. He's being fed through IV. There's a needle mark on his neck, but we can't find any major toxin in his blood. Right now, he's in a light coma, he probably won't wake for a few days.'

Sherlock listened to the diagnosis with rapt attention, catalouging John's injuries. All the more reason to hunt down Markin. One of John's eyes was missing, one of his warm brown eyes, so full of life and comfort, was gone. Now Sherlock could only look into one.

'I—I want to see him.' he choked, taking a few deep breaths. Hardwicke nodded and Sherlock heard Mycroft turn on his heel.

'I'll be in touch Sherlock.' Mycroft called, striding away.

Hardwicke beckoned at Sherlock to follow him, Sherlock followed numbly.

...

He still floated in the dark, but it was a different darkness to the last, it was more comfotable and warmer. There was a dull pain everywhere, but it wasn't unendurable. It was drowned out, an echo of pain. He could hear a steady beeping, a heart monitor?

_A coma you say?_

There was that voice again. He quite liked the sound, it was deep and almost melodious. It sounded of scratchy violins, of exasperation, of running about in the night, it sounded of no food and science and tea and home. That voice could warble on about absolute shit for hours and he'd be more than happy to listen.

Hang on. Coma? Who was in a coma? Was HE in a coma? No it couldn't be, was this a coma? It was way to noisy... Surely they meant someone else.

He heard a distorted voice reply, most noises in this world were distorted, so it was a relief when he heard the nice voice mumble back.

He was struggling to stay, he could feel a presence pulling back to the depths. That was slightly disappointing, he wanted to stay with the voice.

_John?_

The voice was asking for John, but it seemed to be next to him. Who was he? Who was John?

I am John.

John Watson, I'm a doctor, I'm a soldier, I've just been through Hell. That means that voice...it's...

No good. He faded away.

...

Four days passed with no improvement from John. Aside from going to the lavatory or to refill his coffee cup, Sherlock barely left the room.

It was a decent private room (thank you Mycroft), a spacious room with a small television in the corner, venetian blinds and a bedside table.

Sherlock had been told by the nurses to talk to John, that maybe it would incite him to wake up. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. John wouldn't hear him, he might as well talk to the skirting board for all the good it would do. Neverless, he found himself speaking to the sleeping John, telling him about current events, ranting about Anderson and telling him not to worry. There was never any response from the other man. Sherlock studied him, looking past the bandages and the plaster casts. He saw John. For once, he saw the hardships of life etched all over his face. John looked tiny, fragile, and _old_. A small tube was placed under his nostrils, helping him to breathe.

More than once, just to fill the empty silence, Sherlock asked John to wake up, to no avail of course. Sherlock then tried demanding, cajoling, threatening, pleading and bargaining, none of which was able to gain any sort of response. The heart monitor created a high pitched metronome that filled Sherlock's head. He pushed the boredom to the back of his mind, feeling that it'd be a tad insulting to find an unconsious person boring.

Sitting next to John he saw the man's hand, resting upon the bed sheets. The fingers were curled slightly, like John was about to grasp a pen. The fingernails -typical of John- were cut to a sensible length but there was still blood and dirt caked under them. Sherlock saw callouses on the man's fingers, fingers dextrous enough to stitch someone up but not enough to use chopsticks properly. It was a workman's hand, steady and sure.

_And just the right size for mine._

Sherlock physically started. The thought came unbidden into his mind, cutting through his observations. He looked down at his own hand, plae like the rest of him with slightly tapered fingers. He'd never really thought about his hands before, there were just useful things on the end of his arms. But...now he thought about it, they seemed itching to hold the older man's hand. His hand was slightly bigger than John's, but surely he could entwine their fingers and make it more of a match?

_Well...this is new...Oh of course it's not, don't be an idiot. But really, this long to figure it all out? Tut tut Sherlock, you're losing you're touch._

'Oh shut it.' he said aloud. Well, theory was just theory, why not put it into practice?

Tentitavely, Sherlock edged his hand towards John's, which hadn't moved a was very, very surprised to see his hand shaking slightly, like it was telling him to hurry the hell up. Just a few more millimetres, and their fingertips would be touching.

_You're not Sarah._

For a small while he kept his hand there, hovering so close to John's. All it would take was a miniscule movement, and he could grasp his friend's hand...it felt natural, like it should have happened long ago. But would John welcome such a touch? John was straight after all.

Sherlock withdrew his hand. _Oh hell._

...

_Oh for the love of Conan Doyle! Why can't Sherlock just stop thinking for two seconds?_

_Brownie points will go to anyone who discovers the fun trivia behind John's doctor's name :)_

_Next chapter: Lestrade proves he's not as oblivious as Sherlock thinks he is. Will John ever come around? _

_See you soon gorgeous people xx_


	12. Chapter 12

_BROWNIE POINTS TO EVERYONE! Wow, you people are spectacular, you really are :)_

_Yes, Hardwicke was named after Edward Hardwicke, who played Watson in the fabulous Granada series. I feel the need to point out that the two characters share name only. If I call him 'fat' or 'stupid' it's Dr Hardwicke, and I mean no disrespect to Mr Hardwicke._

_Just needed to be said :)_

_Oh, I recently bought a copy of 'A Study in Emerald' by Neil Gaiman, I wholeheartedly recommend it! Sherlock Holmes meets Lovecraftian horror with a real golden twist at the end :D_

_..._

This was annoying. He kept floating in and out of darkness, only to be met with a slightly noisier darkness. It was like tuning in and out of a radio, with snatches of sound which sounded a lot like speech. Every now and again the high pitched bleeping cut through the silence, but then the voice would return. Faint odours wafted about; clean and sterile. Sometimes he could detect a faint smokiness when the voice was near but found he couldn't quite place it. He began to try and piece things together when he could think clearly.

My name is John...John Watson. I can pretty much recall everything up until I reach the blank spot. Not surprisingly...ow, this hurts.

_You need to wake up now John._

Oh not this again. I can't okay!

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't obey the voice, however much he wanted to. He struggled to lift his eyelids, but nothing he did could make him move. He felt useless, trapped in his own enclosed form. He dearly wanted to do what the voice told him, every time he heard the command, the request, the begging...

_Please, open your eyes for me._

...

'You really are worried about him aren't you?'

Sherlock glanced up blearily to see Anderson leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. The ususal sneer was gone, but Sherlock could still see immense dislike gleaming in the shrewd eyes.

'Friends and family only in here Anderson, go away.'

'I'm not in the room,' Anderson countered, raising his eyebrows slightly, 'Therefore I can stay here.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swivelled round in his chair as to get a better view of Anderson.

'What do you want?'

'Hang on, I thought sociopaths didn't have friends.' Anderson cut in, rubbing his forefinger along his jawline in contemplation. 'A normal person hanging around their mate's bedside I'd understand, but I thought Freak's didn't care.'

Sherlock glared daggers at him. All these bloody emotions, they were making his brain completely illogical, this wasn't the normal cold dislike, it was red, hot and _angry._

'How's the wife?' Sherlock asked nastily, relishing in some small sadistic pleasure as Anderson shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

'Listen, I'm not gonna get into this with you. Not now.' Anderson murmured and cast a brief, pity filled glance at John on the bed. 'Back to my original question Freak, you're really worried aren't you?'

Sherlock said nothing, and Anderson's face twisted into a wry smile. 'See? You're just as fucked up as the rest of us.'

The voice was all wrong. It sounded...sad.

Sherlock flared his nostrils and returned to his first posistion, sat rigidly in the chair. The desire to throw something large and heavy was nearly overwhelming. Since the only thing remotely handy was the bedside cabinet (which was inconvieniently too large to hold) he curled his hands into tight fists in his lap. So what if he cared for John? What did it matter to him what Anderson thought about him? The man at the door seemed to take his silence as a concrete answer, silently Anderson changed his stance and tossed something at Sherlock from one hand.

'Here.' He said simply.

Years of playing cricket with Mycroft had helped refine Sherlock's reflexes. Even so, he had to lean forward slightly to catch the object with one hand. He could feel something spiky poking his palm.

'I found it on the street outside,' Anderson mumbled, 'I think some kid probably dropped it.'

Sherlock opened his hand, revealing the small object.

It was a small soilder, made of dark green plastic. The minature man was crouched on one knee, pointing a gun forwards. Scratches around the oval base indicated that it had probably been on the street a while before Anderson found it. His mind flitted through a storm of questions; Why did Anderson pick it up? Why did he give it to Sherlock? What was this supposed to mean? Was it some kind of sick joke about John's military history?

Sherlock lifted his gaze to the man in the doorway, suspicion clouding his expression. His brow furrowed, silently demanding an explaination. Anderson blinked and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

'I-I just thought he'd like it. Sort of a good luck charm...thing.' He stammered lamely whilst thrusting his hand into his trouser pockets.

Sherlock frowned again, incomprehension about sentimentality radiating off of him like a cloud. He wasn't sure what Anderson's reason was, it was only a lump of plastic. Nevertheless, he placed it on the bedside cabinet, positioning it so the soldier was facing the door. It looked like a tiny green bodyguard, keeping the monsters at bay.

The two men looked at each other, Sherlock was about to let out a reluctant 'thank you' but Anderson got there first.

'Hey now don't get all soppy. This doesn't make us friends.' he said, a ghost of the old sneer returning. Sherlock felt his mouth pull into a tight-lipped smile and he gave a short nod.

Anderson's sneer vanished for a split second whilst he glanced back at John, the turned and let them be.

...

_Why hasn't he woken up yet?_

_Be patient, he'll come out of it in his own time._

_You told me that if I talked to him he'd hear me._

_Every person's different sweetie-_

_I told you not to call me that._

_Sorry Sir, but there's nothing we can do, he'll come round when he's ready._

He listened to the conversation, concentrating on every word, every syllable. The deep soothing voice was back, but it had a bite of worry in it. The other voice was a light, warm tone, a woman's probably. He didn't recognise the woman's voice but the male's was irritatingly familiar. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place it.

It wasn't until the sound changed that he realised he'd been out again. There was no new voices this time, just the heart monitor's incessant beeping.

After a while, he heard a faint mumbling which faded into soft breathing, and was 75% sure it wasn't his own. It was a heartbreaking sound, full of isolation and concern.

There was a silence, then another whisper, slightly louder than the rest, giving the impression that the speaker was closer than before.

_The world's not ready to give you up just yet. Come back to me John._

Oh God he wished he could. If he could, he'd wake up, tell the voice everything was fine, it's all fine...it's all fine...

A newer voice cut in softly. _Sherlock?_

Sherlock! That was him! The voice, the tall, thin maniac who dragged him all over London to catch the bad-guy. The completely insufferable genius who could just as easily murder a violin just as he could coax a sonata from it. He held onto the revelation as he felt heavy once more. No, he couldn't fall asleep again, not now, not when Sherlock was waiting for him. He tried to call out, he tried to open his eyes, to move his hands, do _something._

The noises distorted and faded. Bollocks.

...

Ever since John and Sherlock shacked up together, Lestrade noted, trips to the hospital were occuring with a frightening regularity. It seemed about every three or four cases where one of them needed some sort of medical attention. He shuffled his way down the corridor, having asked directions to John's room. It wasn't often Lestrade had called in at Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes not been there. He'd also tried some of his haunts (the pathology lab for starters) until he'd almost smacked himself on the forehead for not realising sooner than there was no other place he would be. The hospital seemed dead set on making it difficult, Lestrade was convinced the labyrinthine hallways had rearranged themselves once his back was turned. It had taken him twenty minuets to find the right ward for Christ's sake.

However, find it he did. He paced nervously along, peering in different rooms for anybody familiar.

About seven rooms along he saw them. A sandy haired man lying battered and bruised -_Oh God his eye-_ on a clinical bed, fed through and IV line and attached to a bulky heart monitor. Maybe it was the machines, the bandages and the plaster casts around him, but the man looked smaller somehow, the military air had gone, it was a shell, sleeping the time away.

Lestrade shook his head and focused his attention on the other, dark curls falling into intent eyes. Lestrade wondered at Sherlock's ability to look suave and elegant whilst obviously sleep deprived and looking like hell. Lestrade noticed Sherlock seemed to be talking, almost as if by default. Now, Lestrade wasn't exactly an idiot, so it didn't take a Sherlockian thought process to clearly see he was speaking to John. Lestrade had no knack for lipreading, therefore couldn't make out the words. There was, however, a sheen in the tall man's eyes Lestrade couldn't place. It was a strange intensity, like he was trying to singe a hole in the bedsheets. It wasn't anger, or fear or any kind of emotion Lestrade could easily recognise, he wasn't sure if it was _any _kind of emotion normal human's had.

Lestrade was reluctant to open the door, and hestitated by the window. So intense was Sherlock's concentration on John that Lestrade felt he was intruding by just being in the same building as them.

Sherlock's head suddenly bent a lot closer to John's. Lestrade watched as the consulting detective's mouth hover mere inches from John's ear. The younger man whispered something to the unconsious one. The moment seemed so innocently intimate that Lestrade cleared his throat and averted his eyes for a second, but he couldn't wait for Sherlock to finish whispering sweet nothings or whatever. He needed to talk to him.

Softly knocking on the door he entered, 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock's reaction was instant. In one swift movement he withdrew from John's bed, unfolded himself from the chair he was sat in and stood up. Lestrade couldn't help but be impressed, he'd have tripped over his own feet, but Sherlock made it look so goddamn easy.

'Lestrade.' Sherlock nodded, the skin over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears the palest pink-was he _blushing?_

'Did you manage to find any of them?' Sherlock asked, straightening his collar. Lestrade cleared his throat and rubbed his Adam's apple.

'No, they were gone long before we could find any trace of them.' he confessed, avoiding Sherlock's eyes, instead, he looked at the man on the bed, 'How is he?'

Sherlock turned away, 'He'll live but I don't understand why he's not awake.' he pouted. Despite himself Lestrade hid a smile, Sherlock could be such a dimwit at times.

'Yeah well, these things take time Sherlock.' He offered, walking around so he was stood the other side of the bed, facing the pale man. Sherlock frowned at him.

'He's a soldier. He never sleeps in later than 8 o'clock. He's always ready for action, why isn't he ready _now?_'

Lestrade supressed the urge to roll his eyes, it was a rather admirable effort he felt. How the hell was he supposed to explain to a genius that sometimes you just had to _wait._ Although to see the arrogant man a little unsettled was the teensiest bit satisfying. But at the same time he felt a twinge of pity for the consulting detective, watching him fret over something.

'Sherlock I need you to go home.' Lestrade said bluntly, no point beating about the bush and all that.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply, 'What? Why?'

Lestrade met his eyes 'Because not even you are unlimited. You need sleep, food and a shower because, quite frankly mate, I can smell you from here.'

After a few owlish blink Sherlock's glare became a dry smile, then became an expression of worry once again.

'I can't' he spluttered, 'I-I don't want...'

_I don't want him to wake up alone._

The unspoken confession lingered in the air between them. Lestrade took a few deep breaths and shrugged off his jacket.

'Any developments and I'll call you first.' He offered, seeing Sherlock's nod as permission he dragged up another chair and was about to sit in it when he hesitated.

'When you're ready to come back, bring some stuff.'

Sherlock peered at him through eyes that somehow happened to be bleary yet penetrating at the same time. This time, Lestrade really did roll his eyes.

'Clothes, books, you know, stuff he likes. Something to keep yourself occupied as well. And stop worrying, I know what it's like to be concerned over loved ones.'

The throwaway comment had an unexpected physical effect on Sherlock, who stiffened and widened his eyes quite comically. His mouth parted and he gaped at Lestrade, who fought valiantly to keep his laughter in check.

'How did you-'

'Please Sherlock I'm not blind!' Lesrade snapped, instantly knowing he'd gone too far. Sherlock winced at the word 'blind' and his eyes darted back to John's mutilated face. Lestrade let his expression soften.

'He's still got one, see? This is why we're born with two, just in case we have mishaps.' It was a sign of his respect that Lestrade tried to inject a little humour into the situation, hoping he managed to convey that he considered both of them as friends. Sherlock lowered his gaze and thrust his hands into his pockets, slowly, almost shyly, he looked at Lestrade. His cheekbones and the tips of his ears were a deeper pink than before, he was definitely blushing.

'Does anyone else suspect?'

'Oh Donovan and Anderson have a bet going on, but no, I don't think so.'

'What kind of bet?'

Lestrade chuckled, 'Donovan thinks you'll be a couple within a year. Anderson thinks you're already together though.'

Sherlock smiled 'Oh really? How did he deduce that?'

'Well, his reasoning was, and I quote: How can two people be that close, bicker that much and NOT be shagging behind closed doors?'

For the first time in quite a while, Sherlock snickered. Lestrade felt his own mouth twitch into a laugh, for a while both of the did nothing except grin at each other like schoolboys sharing a dirty joke. Minuets later the smirking died down, replaced an awkward silence. John made no response to the noise above him, and for a second both men looked at him sadly.

'Oh God I hope he didn't hear that.' Sherlock said, blushing again. Lestrade cleared his throat and finally sank into the hospital chair.

'Go home Sherlock.' He repeated. Sherlock nodded and, for once in his life, obeyed without so much as a glare. Hovering in the door way he turned to Lestrade.

'Thanks for this Lestrade.' He said, Lestrade chewed his lip and sighed.

'Sherlock, it's been nearly six years. You can call me by birth name you know.'

Sherlock stared at him for a long time, a void of silence broken only by the heart monitor.

'Thank you. Greg.' He muttered, and left.

Lestrade watched the tall figure sweep off down the hall, a small worry for Sherlock's health nagging at the back of his mind. Switching his attention back to John he sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'Listen John mate, you gotta wake up soon, you're breaking his heart. Can you hear me in there you lazy bastard? You're gonna be the death of him.'

He smiled softly, at no-one in particular. Somewhere in his mind he heard a quote from some old literature he studied at school, William Shakespeare probably:

_The course of true love ne'er did run smooth._

Lestrade chuckled. Way to go Bill.

...

_Sorry for the long wait, had to compile my portfolio...no mean feat I can tell ya._

_Apologies for the really stupid Shakespeare thing, I just wanted to say 'Way to go Bill' in SOMETHING I write :3_

_Next chapter: Sherlock weighs the pros and cons of 'Wuthering Heights', and John becomes a tad confused._

_See ya next time :) x_


	13. Chapter 13

_Hey how's everyone doing? Doing good so far? So, the Royal Wedding, wasn't that exciting?_

_Of course, there was __**that **__news too. Which I guess means__ it's all good :)_

_..._

Sherlock fought to keep awake all the way back to Baker Street, only to practically collapse on the sofa. The fact he made it that far was a bloody miracle in itself, Lestrade was right, even he had his limits.

When he came back round from a long dreamless sleep it was only the clock mounted on the mantlepiece that gave him any sense of time at all, he found that it was mid-morning the following day, nearly 20 hours since he'd left John at the hospital. Mrs Hudson had then popped round the front door and began to attempt to feed him all manner of foodstuffs. One chilli con carne, five biscuits and three cups of tea later it was all Sherlock could do not to physically throw her out of the door. A carefully orchestrated glare and a few polite yet firm words did the trick, and she left him alone to take a shower in peace.

The shower was welcomed more than Sherlock had anticipated, hot water running over his skin easing the tense muscles in his shoulders. He used his fingertips to rub shampoo into his hair so vigourously it was like each follicle had done him a great personal offense. He felt greatly relieved when he stepped back out in clean clothes, clean shaven and just generally fresher. With a pang of shame he realised he had no idea where the laundry basket was, since John had always done the washing. He could have asked Mrs Hudson, he supposed, but he found he didn't want to admit his lack of knowledge on the matter, so he ended up slinging his dirty clothes into his wardrobe. He'd do it later.

Sherlock then set about packing some holdalls with supplies for John and himself, he couldn't decide exactly what to pack for John, so he ended up just grabbing a handful of clothes and stuffing them rather unceremoniously into the bag. Deciding for once to actually take Lestrade's advice Sherlock started to pack some of John's things, only to end up being unable to decide which of John's books to pack.

After twenty minutes he had only picked three and was currently deciding on the fourth; '_The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy'_, he decided, was a safe option. The other two were the only ones in the Harry Potter series John owned. Sherlock peered at the cover of the fourth, '_Wuthering Heights_'. From what he could tell, it was, as the text on the back told him '_A sensational tale of unbridled passion amongst the wild Yorkshire moors_'. Sherlock bit back a little snigger at the fact John would possess it. Judging by the yellowing paper and dog-eared pages John had obviously had it a long while and had read it many times, it was probably one of his favourites. But if Sherlock were to pack it, how would John interpret his actions? Would he be happy Sherlock brought his favourite book? Would he think it was a sick joke that Sherlock brought him books when he'd lost an eye? Or worse, would he think Sherlock was trying to tell him something by giving him romance novels?

Sherlock stared at the image on the cover, a dark haired man and woman, both looking quite irate at the greenery around them. His family home had quite a sizeable library, storing thousands of books. Sherlock never head a real passion for literature, focusing more on the non-fiction and the factual, it had never occurred to him that books like this might actually be_ good_. But then again, Sherlock was well aware of the fact John was better with these sorts of things than he was. The book then somehow found itself nestled among John's clothes in the bag.

Sherlock was just finishing his own packing when a buzzing sensation in his jacket pocket caught his attention. Fishing it out Sherlock saw he had received a text from Lestrade, it only contained two words:

_He's awake._

...

'How is he?' Sherlock demanded, sweeping through the hospital foyer as Lestrade rushed out to meet him.

'Panicking, disorientated, he tried to fight off the nurses, shouting about a sculptor.' Lestrade answered as they both walked quickly to John's ward, nearly knocking an elderly woman off her zimmer frame in the process.

'Did you try and calm him down?' Sherlock's expression was growing darker by the second, but Lestrade could see he was greatly relieved his friend had shown some sign of life.

'I tried, I don't think he recognised me at first.' Lestrade unconsiously took one of the holdall bags from Sherlock and slung it about his own shoulders. 'But he's had a hard time, I don't blame him...why have you got a violin case?'

Sherlock followed his gaze to the violin case dangling from his other hand. 'Stradivarius. You said something with which to occupy my time.'

'Strad-?'

They were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Dr Hardwicke, who puffed out his cheeks in agitation.

'Finally! I'm glad someone's here, maybe you can get some recognition out of him.'

Sherlock strode into John's room to see his best friend sitting upright in the bed, bandaged face snapping up to see him. The dark eye widened as it roamed over Sherlock's face, then blinked in disbelief. His bottom lip quivered, the stitches sticking out painfully, after a few moments, John's mouth formed an easily recognisable word.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock heard the little crack in the dry croak, and remembered John probably hadn't had a drop of water in days. He felt his own lip begin to tremble, determined never to leave John alone like that again. Sherlock took a few steps towards John, and was surprised, not to mention a little hurt, when John shrank back against the bedclothes, uninjured hand brushing his bandaged chest. Sherlock frowned when he saw a flash of fear pass over John's countenance, but softened his own expression and extended a friendly hand.

'Hello John, are you alright?'

It hurt Sherlock, somewhere in his chest region, to play the concerned yet aloof flatmate whilst he desperatley wanted to just hold the man to him and tell him everything was fine. He felt his face involuntary contort with the wave of emotion he felt at the sight of his friend.

John's eye blinked rapidly, tears welling up in the depths. Sherlock saw the hand that was once clutched to his chest stretch out towards him shakily. Throwing a 'leave us alone ' glare over his shoulder Sherlock eagerly edged his way toward John, who wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist in a vice-like grip.

John's voice shook uncontrollably as he tried to pull Sherlock closer. 'It's really you.'

'Of course it's me John,' Sherlock replied, his own voice threatening to crack. He allowed John to draw him near, closing his own fingers upon the hand gripped on his wrist. John then did something Sherlock had expected, but was still a tad unprepared for; he began to cry, mumbling his name.

If there were still others in the room, Sherlock was far past caring. All he could process at this particular moment in time was John. John, who was clutching at him as though frightened to let him go. Sherlock gently eased John back onto the covers, as the man had gone rigid, thankfully John complied, allowing himself to be pushed back onto the pillow.

'We have to get out of here Sherlock, ' John whispered to him urgently 'We're not safe.'

'Shh,' Sherlock tried, hoping his voice was soothing enough, 'Everything's fine John, you're perfectly safe here.'

John shook his head violently. 'He told me he'll be back for me. Please Sherlock, let's get out of here.'

Sherlock frowned, 'We're in a hospital John. Who told you that?'

John's entire frame shook, making Sherlock tremble with him, his eyelid began to droop, he was falling asleep again. A common occurance with awaking coma patients.

'John! Stay with me, it's okay.' Sherlock murmured, patting John's hand.

'He took my eye.' The voice was broken, tiny. This wasn't the voice of John Watson. John Watson was confident, he was strong...

John's head lolled onto his shoulders and Sherlock gently withdrew his arms. Footsteps padded softly behind him, he turned to see Dr Hardwicke rubbing the back of his neck and frowning slightly.

'He just needs rest.' The man assured him, checking John's vitals and retreating once more. Sherlock nodded numbly, watching John sleep, John's confused mumblings were a concern to him. Who was 'he'? And why was John so terrified of him returning?

...

_Dear God that fizzled out for sticking around. Again, I'm sorry for lack of updates, I have the role of Followspot Operator for a production of 'Jesus Christ Superstar' so it's gonna be a hectic few weeks!_

_Next Chapter: 'Great, spectacular. Destroying it before it even began. Nice going Tosspot.', John's recovery and Sherlock makes a less than graceful confession._

_See ya there dearies! x_


	14. Chapter 14

_Howdy my dears, hopefully this doesn't come after too long a wait. The second series of Sherlock is currently being filmed, I think my ungodly squee was heard from Leeds XD_

_'Jesus Christ Superstar' was an absolute success and I can't even begin to describe how much I loved working with everyone :) So much love for everyone involved with such a marvellous production xx  
Also, sad news; RIP Edward Hardwicke. :( x_

_Bloody hell, this chapter is a long 'un. _

_..._

During the weeks that followed John had become frenzied in his determination to recover quickly. Sherlock could only watch as he excersised his injured limbs and tossing paper balls into a bin from different distances in an attempt to recover some of the depth perception he'd lost in his eyes. Most of the bandages were gone, leaving only gauze patches here and there about his skin.

Sherlock had almost broken the phone he was holding when he first discovered the carving on John's chest. The scarlet letters would be forever etched into his skin, and Sherlock was livid on John's behalf. He was _not _'worthless'. The injuries to John's back were of some concern to everybody when a few of the larger ones became infected. Sherlock had felt his fingers clench involuntarily when John had hissed with pain from the disinfectant hitting his wounds. John had bore it with all the stoicism of a soldier, and all the detachment of a doctor, aside from a few jokes that he'd never win 'Body of the Year' again. It was good to hear to John joke about these things, to hear him try and lighten his predicament when most others would only see the bad. The mindset was just so...so _John._

John hadn't admitted this to anyone, but he was absurdly grateful for Sherlock's presence in the hospital. It was beyond any coherent explanation to illustrate how much it meant to him that Sherlock Holmes was _there. _Sherlock had been there the first time his bandages were changed, he had been there the first time John had tried to eat and drink (which also doubled up as 'he was there the first time John vomited all over the place'). Sherlock had been there when he first came to terms about his eye, providing silent support by just sitting next to his bed as he wept into his hands. He had been there when John emerged, sweating and shaking, from very Sculptor-orientated nightmares. He had been there when Harry visited, carefully avoiding saying or doing anything to provoke her further as John tried to reassure her that Sherlock wasn't to blame for anything. She hadn't been convinced.

So here they were, little over a month later, Sherlock examining his immaculate nails whilst John ate a small bowl of canned peaches, idly flicking through _Wuthering Heights._ Dr Hardwicke and himself decided that reading whenever possible would do his remaining eye good, getting stronger and whatnot.

Sherlock glanced at him, 'Mycroft's coming by later.'

'Oh goodie.' John sighed, licking his spoon. The two of them lapsed into silence once more. John hated when Sherlock had nothing to say, he preferred it, no, _liked _it when Sherlock moaned at things or grumbled at trivial nonsense. He scratched idly at the bandage patch taped over his eye, listening to Sherlock's shift slightly in his chair.

'I spy, with my little eye...' Sherlock began absentmindedly, despite himself, John smirked and turned to him.

'Are you taking the piss?' he asked lightly. Sherlock blinked.

'Sorry.' He mumbled, his lips twitching into a smile also. He leaned forward in his chair, steepled fingers underneath his chin.

'You know,' he began conversationally, 'If my enemies must insist on kidnapping my roomate, I'll bunk with Anderson.'

John let out a bark of laughter, rocking back and forth slightly in his mirth 'I can't wait 'til you tell him! Take a picture of his face for me!'

The two of them lapsed back into a silence, albiet a companionable one this time. The tiny green soldier still crouched on John's bedside cabinet, gun cocked to protect all those therein.

'John we'll go home soon. I promise.' Sherlock declared suddenly. John turned to look at him, and was about to answer when Sherlock continued on:

'Listen, I wouldn't have stopped looking for you. You know that don't you?'

John nodded. Despite what was written on his chest, a little bit of him told him that Sherlock was, indeed, his best friend. 'I know.'

Sherlock's relieved smile revealed that he'd obviously been worrying about this for some time. John's gaze met his flatmate's and he tried desperatley to send him some sort of signal to tell him that everything was alright. It was Sherlock who broke the connection, snapping round to see Mycroft Holmes in the doorway.

'It's only polite to announce yourself, instead of lurking like an eavesdropper.' He told him primly. Mycroft, the infinite bastard, had the nerve to look completely unabashed. He swept into the room, beckoning a slightly mousey looking woman to follow.

'I am not 'lurking' dear brother. Simply biding my time until I enter. Neither was I eavesdropping, only listening.'

Bastard.

The elder brother strightened his already impossibly tidy collar. 'My men have apprehended several of Markin's men. Including one Abigail Crue, who has been sent to a young offenders institute. However, still no sign of Markin. Incidentally, your helper, Ruard-' he broke off, nodding to Sherlock, 'He'll be received a considerable amount in his bank account tomorrow.'

John blinked, 'Ruard?'

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, then switched his attention to John. 'Lucky he owed me a favour, without his help I may never have found you.'

'John,' Mycroft continued, gesturing to the woman who was hovering behind him. 'This is Dr Winters. She'll be your new therapist.'

This new revelation didn't surprise Sherlock in the slightest; everything about her, from her horn-rimmed glasses to her sensible shoes, screamed 'Shrink' (with a serious case of boyfriend trouble, if her eyebrows were anything to go by.). It was more surprising, however, when John let out a humourless giggle.

'No thanks. Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt.' He said, crossing his arms over his chest. Oh dear, this was the sort of defiance Sherlock was afraid of. He didn't want John's head examined, of course he didn't. (John was fine the way he was thank you very much.) But listening to John's nightmares made him pretty certain that his friend's mental state might be worse for wear if they didn't work through it. Winters took matters into her own hands; leaning toward John and adopting a professional, friendly, expression.

'Mr Watson, from what I can gather you've been through a traumatic experience-'

'I know that.'

'-And it will help you immensly if you talk through it.'

John's ears went pink, never a good sign.

'I don't need to TALK through it! I LIVED it! And no offense, it wasn't much fun going through it the first time, so thanks, but no thanks.'

This was obviously not the reaction the woman was expecting. She looked to Mycroft for support, who promptly stepped forward.

'John, please bear in mind that I have enough power to-'

'Do absolutely nothing against his will.' Sherlock cut in, rising to his feet. John couldn't help but be impressed by his friend's flair for the dramatic. Both brothers were nearly nose to nose, glaring coldly at one another. To Mycroft's credit, he didn't back down and matched Sherlock's icy stare. John usually gave up after a few seconds.

'Listen Sherlock, John needs help.'

'He doesn't want it.' Sherlock replied flatly. 'You heard Dr Watson. Good day.'

...

John didn't know exactly what woke him up, but pinned it on the fact that his back hurt like hell. It wasn't nightime, because the light was still bright through his window. It became obvious, however, that Sherlock was fast asleep in the chair.

John studied his sleeping friend, and the part of his brain, his 'writer' part clicked in. It suddenly dawned on John that Sherlock was indeed devastatingly good-looking, with flawless skin and quite and Elvish features. His mouth was a soft pout and the dark curls fell onto his forehead. The whole effect was an image of almost cherubic beauty that John was sure Da Vinci would sell his grandmother to paint. The skin on Sherlock's neck was ghost white and looked tempting enough to touch.

'And Lo. The dragon sleeps.' came a voice from the doorway.

John looked up to see Sarah standing in the door. She seemed tired, pale and slightly harassed.

'May I come in?' She asked softly, glancing at Sherlock. John nodded, Sherlock was quite a deep sleeper when he got round to it, and probably wouldn't care even if he did wake.

Sarah perched on the side of the bed, only a few feet away from John. Her eyes lingered sadly on his ruined eye, but made quite an admirable effort to keep eye contact.

'How are you?' She asked after a few silent moments, John shifted a little to give her more room, the edge of a bed wasn't the most comfortable at the best of times.

'I've been better.' He said, smiling weakly at her. A ghost of a smile flitted across her face, then she glanced at Sherlock again.

'I'm glad he cleaned himself up before you woke up, his facial hair was all over the place. It's wierd, I didn't even think he _could _grow facial hair, but there you go I reckon..'

She trailed off, looking at John again. Something was wrong with her expression, it was way too sad than was entirely necessary. He had enough experience with relationships to have a sneaking suspicion as to where this was leading, but he hoped he was wrong this time. Sarah's eyes brimmed with tears as she stroked his hand lightly.

'John, I can't do this any more.'

Fuck. To his dismay, he couldn't open his mouth to answer her, to tell her it was ok, but he didn't. She carried on:

'I can't stay up all night wondering if you're safe. I can't keep hearing news that you or Sherlock have been hurt. Don't ask me to watch your heroic streak destroy you. Just don't.'

It was then her voice broke with the tears she'd been vainly trying to hold back. John raised a hand and ran a finger over her cheek.

'Sarah, if you want me to stop the madness with Sherlock-'

She violently shook her head. 'No. John...with Sherlock...you-you change. You become this wonderful crime fighter.' She gave a watery chuckle, 'Besides, I think Sherlock would have something to say about it if you do.'

John wrapped his fingers around hers and gave them an affectionate squeeze. She responded by throwing her arms around him and hugging him. John had been dumped by girls before, he knew about the crushing hopelessness that came with the separation. It sickened him to realise that, as a perfectly lovely woman was ending things between, he felt nothing. It would have been more appropriate if he was sad, or..or something. But he wasn't.

'Hey, at least crazy Chinese criminals won't be trying to kill you anymore.'

She smiled sadly, 'Yeah.'

Sherlock snuffled slightly in his sleep, causing both of them to jump. Sarah wiped the tears from her face.

'He was a complete mess during all this.' She told him matter-of-factly. 'He cares for you very much.'

John scoffed, 'Yeah, tell me that when he's dragged us all around the city and one of us ends up on the floor.'

'You misunderstand him.' She interjected, 'I don't think he'll ever let you die. Even if he has to go to the other side and drag you back by his teeth.'

After a few seconds of contemplation, the image burst fully formed into his mind and John had to press his hand to his mouth to stifle the massive belly laugh threatening to begin. The gravity of the situation settle don him, and he lowered his hand and gazed at Sarah sadly.

'So this is it then?'

'I'm afraid so. Sorry.'

She stood up and walked to the door, pausing and turning back to him;

'The job's still yours at the surgery, if you want it.' She said.

John nodded, then started to pull himself off the bed into the waiting wheelchair.

'Wait a sec,' he said, a spontaneous chivalry overcoming him, 'I'll see you out.'

...

The return journey back to his room seemed longer and unusually lonely, although a rather delightful child decided to proudly show him her blobby pictures of butterflies and houses. John then received a less than subtle (as children are prone to do) interrogation about his eye. He made up some bullshit that a very bad man stole it. Well, it was technically true, but he wouldn't dare tell a child everything, even he wouldn't want to hear it.

The lift doors opened and it only took a little effort for him to ease the bulky chair out and down the corridor.

Just short of his room John paused, a violin was being played quite superbly. It didn't take a second to guess who was playing. Light, almost ethereal tones were issuing from the door, it was a strangely familiar tune, but John couldn't quite place it. The music made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, it was just so pure. Very, very softly, he could percieve a low, melodious sound...it sounded like...

Hang on? Really? Was that _Sherlock _singing?

_'Moon River, wider than a mile..'_

It was crazy, beyond belief, that anything so bizarre was happening, and yet it was. A funny feeling was aring in John's stomach, it was like needles and bricks pounding him, but it wasn't a completely unpleasant feeling, it made his cheeks warm. If he happened to be twenty years younger (and a girl) he would have said 'butterflies'. But he wasn't, so it was labeled 'funny feeling'.

Quietly (well, as noiselessly as one can when in a wheelchair) John pushed the door open and was not surprised to see Sherlock stood, eyes shut and swaying to his own music. The reverie was smashed when John cleared his throat softly, prompting him to swiftly stash his instrument away.

'Nice song.' John said, hauling himself back onto the bed, God his knee was sore.

'Yes, well, hmmm.' Sherlock muttered, straightening his collar where the violin was just resting and creased the fabric. 'I trust Sarah will be ok?'

Something clicked in John's brain. 'How long were you listening?'

'Not long.' Typical Sherlock, completely unfazed by his hypocritical attitude to eavesdropping, 'That's why I didn't wonder where you'd gone.'

'Ah.'

Sherlock fidgeted with his nails as he sat, pointedly not looking at John. After a few minuets he drew a large breath then talked to his hands:

'Listen, John. Um, what she said...Well, obviously it would be impossible to pass to the Afterlife, never mind drag you back with my teeth. But. Er, the sentiment...'

Oh no. Not so soon, John ferverently wished, Sarah had just left, this was too much to deal with. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, maybe friendship was all that meant.

Sherlock chewed the inside of his bottom lip, not a great sign, he _never _looked uncertain. But he was, he looked like a small boy shyly talking to a girl.

'I know it's not been long, but I do feel attached to you. During the whole incident with Moriarty I was so _scared _John. Not for myself or because of the 'game', it was the bomb. Jesus John, do you know how long it took me to not to worry about you every time you walked out the door? It's bizarre, it takes me ages-practically years- to grow attached to someone, but it tokk me less than 24 hours to care for you. Don't you see?'

'Er...not really.'

Sherlock heaved a melodramatic sigh. 'I mean, obviously, scientifically speaking, it's just a mixture of chemicals in my brain but it's getting hard to ignore. I can't lose you John. I-'

'No you don't.' John cut in sharply. This wasn't right, Sherlock was confused, that's all. Probably.

The younger man blinked. 'Sorry?'

'You don't.' John said firmly, studying his friend's face. 'And..please, don't say it aloud. Say it aloud and...and I'll believe it. Hell, maybe if you say it enough you'll convince yourself to believe it too. Sherlock, I know you. You don't feel that sort of thing, for anybody. Besides, say you did, and say I—I felt the same way, deep deep down, you'd grow to loathe me. Look at me, an ex-soldier with one eye and a limp. Think about it mate. I'm too slow as it is already, I can't keep up with you, we both know it. I'd drag you down. And what of a future? What? A house? A garden? A pet dog? It's not _you_ Sherlock, what kind of life would you have?'

'It'd be a life with you!'  
Sherlock was on his feet now, his voice raised and his cheeks flushed with humiliation. Oh God, he looked absolutely devastated. Nevertheless, John forced himself to remain calm. _A good soldier never lets his regret show._

_'_That's not what you want.'

'What the fuck do you know about what I want?'

'Sherlock please-'

'No! You will listen, I can adjust, just be with me. I've known since the first time you called me an idiot. Do you remember that? Please understand John. I'm not exactly the best person, but I do need you.'

'Look, what do you want me to say?'

'Just tell me you feel the same.'

'Sherlock I-'

'Do you?'

'I don't know.'

There was a horrible moment of silence, the two men staring at each other. Then-

'Fine.' Sherlock snapped. 'I don't care anyway.'  
With that, he stooped to gather up his crumpled coat from the chair. John stiffened.

'Where are you going?'

Sherlock didn't answer, he didn't even look at John, or acknowledge him at all. He simply picked up his things and strode out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

John stared at the now empty room, taking in everything that just happened. What had he done? His best friend had just tried to be honest and pour his heart out, probably for the first time _ever_, and he'd just cruelly shot him down. John had always prided himself on being gentle with other people's emotions but, despite the fact the funny feeling was stinging his chest, he'd just rejected him without hearing him out. John leaned back and breathed out through his nostrils, closing his eyes against the glare of the light.

_Great, spectacular. Destroying it before it even began. Nice going Tosspot._

He'd apologise. Sherlock would understand wouldn't he? Surely he would, John was just beginning to question whether he was straight after all, he couldn't deal with this right now.

Minuets passed, minuets turned into hours, and Sherlock still didn't come back. He's just angry,John reasoned, what did you expect?

He honestly didn't know.

...

*_Sigh * Oh boys, boys, what will I do with you?_

_Hopefully I'll be able to update before I go on holiday (4__th__ July for 2 weeks) but if I can't, please please PLEASE be patient with me._

_Next chapter: Not only is the conversation awkward, but John now looks like a pirate. This doesn't help. Sherlock 'persuades' his friend that maybe there's more to them after all._

_See you soon :) x_


	15. Chapter 15

_So. What have we learned? John gets alarmed quite easily and needless to say Sherlock does not take rejection well. _

_How are you all doing? I'm gonna be honest, this chapter was absolute agony to write. I was petrified about anyone slipping out of character, especially John and Sherlock, ESPECIALLY John's massive speech I've given him later in this chapter. I totally suck at romantic scenes so please forgive me! * cowers *_

_..._

Sherlock viciously kicked an empty glass bottle across the deserted street. It shattered into little green shards, nearly shredding a nearby cat but he was too incensed to notice.

It had all gone wrong. That was not how it was supposed to go. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure what he had wanted to happen, but having John panic and reject him wasn't exactly part of the plan. The reaction was totally understandable of course, it was perfectly logical that John would be alarmed and confused at this new revelation. Logical, but it didn't make Sherlock feel any better about it. Why didn't these emotions come with some sort of handbook or something? It'd make it so much easier to discern what was going on in people's heads, to understand empathy, or sympathy, or both.

Kicking something wasn't enough, so Sherlock lobbed a handful of batteries (he'd needed them for a case and just hadn't got round to throwing them out) at a wall. They created a rather satisfying metallic shower, rolling across the pavement.

He should apologise, it wasn't John's fault. He'd reacted quite childishly he knew, but storming out felt good at the time. Now he felt slightly queasy around the stomach region, his intestines squirming uncomfortably. Although, to be fair, he wasn't completely to blame either. John had no right to assume he was just some depraved fiend that just wanted him because he was there. He could be flexible, he could change for John, why was John too blind to see that?

A buzzing emerged from his pocket. It was from Mycroft and simply read:

_Give him time. Welcome to the world of human emotions, but tread carefully. As you've witnessed, it's a bit fragile-MH._

'Oh piss off.' Sherlock snarled, shoving his phone back into the folds of his coat. What did that stuffed up peacock know? Why did everyone seem to want him to _not _have feelings after years of asking him to feel? It just didn't make any sense. Stupid people.

Sherlock spied a pub around the street corner. Fuck it, he was going to drink himself stupid, maybe even get himself thrown out. It wasn't exactly a foolproof plan, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

...

It had been just over 48 hours since Sherlock stormed off, John couldn't recall ever feeling so shitty. He was officially well enough to go back to Baker Street, but now with a cane until his leg got better. The gauze patch over his eye was now a nondescript, unassuming brown cotton eyepatch. The next person to make a pirate related quip was going to get a whallop in the nose, he was in that sort of mood.

Everything was stuffed back into the holdall, all his clothes, books and other crap Sherlock had brought for him. Only one item remained behind.

The tiny plastic soldier still stood watch on the bedsit, having not moved since Sherlock positioned him all those weeks ago. John had found himself getting quite attached to it, it had calmed him when the bad dreams merged with waking, an almost primitive belief that it was actually a good luck charm. Not even the fact it had come from Anderson could get him to not feel sentimental about it. Whilst picking it up John briefly wrapped his hand tightly around the spiky plastic, then gently pocketed it.

Dr Hardwicke fixed him with an appointment to discuss 'options' about his eye and scars he'd gained during his time with Sculptor. John didn't want to undergo any corrective surgery on the scars, he didn't want to spend even one more second in the hospital than was entirely necessary. He flirted with the notion of a glass eye, but eventually decided that it would just be too much hassle in the long run. Besides, the patch kind of suited him.

Hobbling with the cane to the exit took longer than John had anticipated, the last time he'd got to grips with it rather easily...John forcibly reminded himself that last time hadn't even been a real injury, let alone real pain.

A few nurses bade him farewell as he edged past, giving him hugs and a young orderly even gave him a swift peck on the cheek causing him to blush. He'd expected that after the fiasco with Sherlock he'd have to find his own way back to Baker Street; it was a surprise, then, to find Mycroft standing imperiously outside the hospital's main doors, a sleek silver car just behind him.

'Mycroft? Thought you'd be too busy running the country for this sort of thing.'

The elder Holmes brother waved his hand airily; 'The country can cope without me for an hour or so.' His shrewd gaze locked onto John's face. 'You are eager to get home I'd wager.'

'You've no idea,' John replied. In a brave attempt at nonchalance, he cast a glance around the immediate vicinity. 'Is, er, is Sherlock, um...around?' He said, trying to make it out as a throwaway question of no real importance. The ghost of a smirk on Mycroft's face told him he'd failed spectacularly.

'He's back at Baker Street, recovering from the mother of all hangovers. He got himself thrown out of about five pubs in total. One of my people found him almost catatonic the other side of London.'

'Jesus Christ, how'd he get in that state?'

Mycroft cast him a meaningful glance, which made him flush and concentrate greatly on his hands. 'Oh, I see. Um...I'd better talk to him then when I see him.'

'Yes perhaps you should.' Mycroft answered in his usual enigmatic manner. 'I do hope your little fights aren't any worse than the disagreement at the hospital, I don't think liver failure is one of my brother's deepest wishes.'

John got into the car and waited for it to pull onto the main road before answering, but not before many clearings of the throat.

'So..you know about that then?'

'Oh please John, give a man some credit, I told you before, I worry about him, constantly.'

'I don't blame you.'

There was a silence, in which Mycroft twirled that goddam umbrella serenly. He cleared his throat, making John jump.

'We've caught many of the people involved in your attack, Markin still eludes me, but John, I have to ask, was there anyone else?'

John swallowed hard, he hadn't told anyone about Sculptor. He was certain that Sherlock had his suspicions, but he'd ket quiet. What if Sculptor found them? What if he cornered Sherlock? He had promised John, whispering to him in the dark, that he'd see him again. Could he subject those he loved to that?

'No.' He lied. 'There wasn't anyone else.'

...

John barely had time to react when, seconds after he opened the door at Baker Street, he was viciously ambushed by a tearful and worried Mrs Hudson. It took nearly a full five minutes to calm her down enough to have a proper conversation. She hadn't visited when he was in hospital as she'd been visiting her sister; and John could only smile as she fussed about him, clucking about his eye and various scars. After half an hour she let him go back to his flat in peace, all the while muttering about 'her boys getting hurt one day'.

Sherlock was, as usual, spread out along the sofa, the angular lines of his face softened in repose. His eyes flew open at John's approach, fastening onto the patch.

'You've-'

'Make a pirate joke and I'll never buy milk again.'

Sherlock's mouth curled up into a smile but his features quickly settled into one of awkward confusion.

'John-'

'Can I go first?' John interrupted quickly. Jesus, the man's eyes were so expressive, how could he have never noticed?

Sherlock nodded, swivelling into a sitting posistion, watching John intently. To John's intense embarassment, the sheer force of the gaze made him flush.

'Well,' he began awkwardly, 'Listen mate, I'm sorry for-for what I said. I-I wasn't completely thinking straight. And I'll admit, what you said, it made me think, really think, about this 'thing'. It probably won't surprise you that I have actually been feeling...stuff. Stuff for you mainly. I tried to be normal, but I just can't, because you're the most un-normal person ever. And I-'

A high pitched ringtone burst through John's less-than-graceful speech, Sherlock pawed for his phone and stared at the message with a strange expression on his face. John shifted his weight uncomfortably, red in the face.

'Something wrong?' he asked.

'Only Mycroft.' Sherlock said, stuffing the phone away. 'Ignore him. Sorry, you were saying?'

John drew a deep breath, Sherlock's eyes seemed huge in the pale face.

'Um, yeah. As I said, I know what you said. I don't know if you really meant it or..well. But, the truth is mate, lately I've been thinking about you more than I'm sure is healthy. I'm- I'm scared to death about this because you can see,' He gestured at his face and injured body in general 'I'm not okay Sherlock. I probably won't be okay for a while. What happened during with Markin...it's not just gonna go away, do you understand that?'

'I do.' Sherlock replied softly, lips trembling slightly. 'John-'

'I'm not finished. Sorry.' John coughed again and avoided Sherlock's eyes for the first time. This was hard enough as it is without Sherlock's massive quicksilver orbs staring up at him.

'But, if you were willing to wait for me- that is- if you still want to...I'd be more than happy. I just need you to be here, not getting yourself stinking drunk I might add. Sherlock I, I feel like you do. Okay? Just so you know.'

What followed next was the most torturous silence John had ever encountered. Sherlock had barely moved and was just staring at him with an unplaceable look on his face. Ever the enigma, he said nothing. John felt extremely hot, his cheeks prickling enough to be painful. He couldn't bear the crushing silence, it was just too much.

'Well, that was eloquent.' He said at length, then proceeded to ramble at top speed. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said, I way out of line. Um...you don't have to, obviously. No it's fine.' He turned away and began walking off, wondering dying of embarassment was classed as suicide or murder, 'I'll just go and...flush myself down the loo or something-'

He was interrupted by a pale hand with tapered fingers grasping his shoulder gently. Well fucking hell, Sherlock now had the ability to cross a room noiselessly. John allowed his flatmate to wheel him around and found himself face to face with the world's only consulting detective.

There was no grand spectacle, no swelling crescendo from some invisible orchestra, just Sherlock Holmes closing a few inches gap and placing his lips on John Watson's.

Sherlock could have sworn everything became clearer in those too-short seconds he spent kissing John. It was a simple, chaste kiss, nothing too intense to scare John away, but just passionate enough to speak volumes of silent confessions. When they broke apart, John remained scarlet, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the dark hue of his best friends remaining eye. God, that eye patch made him look more rugged, more world weary, more _sexy_.

'C-Christ Sherlock.' John stammered, Sherlock smirked.

'Do you intend on talking all the way through?' He grinned, hands still on John's shoulders. John's lips quirked up into a shy smile which Sherlock readily took as an invitation and kissed him for a second time. John was more prepared now and eagerly responded, placing his own hands either side of Sherlock's face. Once Sherlock was sure of John's comfort with the situation, he happily deepened the kiss, delighted with the fact that John didn't pull away. It wasn't long before John's hands were fisted in his hair and his own hands trailing down to the veteran soldier's hips.

John had a fleeting memory of bleeding in the dark, Sculptor's cold hands on his skin. It was quick and distant but enough for him to stiffen and his breathing hitched.

Sherlock instantly picked up on it and he broke away. John refused to look at him.

'What's wrong.'

'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'

Sherlock was not convinced. Using his thumb and forefinger he pulled John's chin to make John face him. There was something haunted lurking in the depths of John's eye, echoes of war, his trials with Moriarty and whatever the hell he had endured at the hands of Markin.

'What happened?'

'Not now, of all times, not now.' John murmered, closing his eye. Sherlock opened his outh to argue but was interrupted with the sensation of John's fingers trailing the length of the back of his neck. The touch caused a shiver to course through Sherlock's entire being. This time, it was John who hungrily began to kiss him again, all the thoughts troubling him concerning John's memories vanished in one happy, red-hot moment.

In years to come Sherlock would still never quite remember the exact moment they collapsed onto the sofa, or when his shirt came off...

Or when he pulled up John's jumper to reveal the chilling scar scribbled onto his chest:

**WORTHLESS.**

He paused. John's mind caught up with him and he hurriedly yanked his clothes back down and turned away. Both men were breathing as heavily as they would if they'd run the length of London.

Softly, Sherlock snaked his hands up John's jumper (despite the man's efforts to twist away) until his fingertips found the scarred flesh. He then began to stroke them lightly, and could feel his friend's (were they friends? It seemed so much more now) heartbeat quicken beneath the skin.

'Do you believe it?' He purred lowly, watching John for signs of distress. There were none.

'I did for a while.' John admitted heavily, 'They were quite convincing.'

Sherlock frowned, but continued his exploration of John's scars, now wrapping his hand to feel the pitted flesh on his back.

'And now?'

'Now?' John answered, pulling off his jumper fully to expose his torso: bullet wound, scars, well toned muscle and all. 'Now I really couldn't care less what I'm worth.'

_Right now John H Watson, you are worth the entire world._

...

_ONLY THE EPILOGUE TO GO!_

_Thank you so much for sticking this out, and I hope you enjoyed it. This was so much fun and I appreciate you for being with me :)_

_Right ok, there's still an epilogue for this story. But I do have two stories for Sherlock lined up. I'm leaving it up to you lovely people to choose which one I write first :)_

_'Make your move': The sequel to this story. Six months after the events of 'An eye for an eye' Sherlock is once more drawn into Moriarty's sinister game. But can John- and his sanity- survive?_

_'So tell me Johnny Boy, are you willing to lose?'_

_'London's War': A slightly AU, dystopian fantasy. 'Unbeknownst to the entire world, Britain has crumbled from within. What you see is a lie. Britain has fallen, and the only man I can turn to has not been around for a long, long time.'_

_Please tell me :) Both will be written, I just don't know which one to publish first ^^_

_Epilogue: Sherlock meets Markin. John and Sherlock have a moment of joy._

_See ya soon ^^ x_


	16. Chapter 16: Epilogue

_So, I've dragged myself away from the warm, sunny climes of Greece back to Bristol. This is the very last chapter of 'An eye for an eye', hopefully you've all enjoyed it :)_

_I wrote the last part of the epilogue whilst listening to 'In His Eyes' from the musical Jekyll and Hyde. I think the lyrics could relate very well to Sherlock and John, but that's by the by. Give it a listen, it's a pretty decent song nonetheless XD_

_..._

Markin pissed most of the drink away on a graffiti covered wall. The sun was now just a sliver of orange on the city skyline. Terry Markin had just drowned what little self respect he had left in about seven pints of bitter. Why? Sherlock Fucking Holmes, that's why.

Markin found out the soldier hadn't died, shame. Now he'd have the whole fucking police squad on his head now. But it was worth it he guessed, maybe his son George would be acquitted.

Footsteps approached from behind him, Markin turned and started whn he saw who it was.

'What do you want?' he growled. The newcomer said nothing, just glared. Markin felt a little prickle of alarm, there was no reason for them to be here. He was of no use to them now, why didn't they leave him alone?

'Fuck off, I've done my part.' He said, raising his voice slightly and backing away. The newcomer advanced threateningly. Markin was truly panicky now, sensing he was now useless, expendable.

'What about George? What about my son?' He shouted, nearly tripping over his feet in an attempt to back away. 'You said he'd be out of jail in a week! I did everything you asked!'

It had been a lie, everything they had said was a lie. Markin didn't have much time to contemplate this new development. Strong, calloused hands grasped his face. There was a deafening snap. Terry Markin crumpled, dead from a broken neck.

The newcomer scratched his chin idly, as though he'd done no more than scuffed his shoe on the concrete. New footsteps echoed dully in the small back alley. A hand rested on his shoulder with the clucking of a tongue.

'Tut tut Sebastian, what a mess you've made.'

...

Amber lamplight seeped through the faded curtain and faintly illuminated the bedroom where, resting on a chest of drawers, a tiny toy soldier stood watch.

John and Sherlock lay on the bed, Sherlock holding John to him like a teddy bear. They hadn't done anything following their 'understanding' on the couch. John wasn't ready, and Sherlock was fine with that, there'd be time for all that later.

John's eye patch lay discarded on the floor, Sherlock had been adamant that John didn't need to hide anything from him. Everything from the bullet scar to the missing eye was accepted. John felt happier than he'd done in a long time, and was content to lie there with Sherlock Holmes until Christmas. Although deep inside he still felt useless and ugly, the marks left by Sculptor would propbably never completely fade away. However, the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his and his breath behind his ear dulled all the pain.

Their hands were entwined, it was a challenge to distinguish their individual fingers. Sherlock had never felt so secure before, during all his crazy years he'd always felt somewhat lost. But now, holding John, he felt more at home than ever.

Outside, a mere few meters away, beyond the curtains, lay a dark world. Lit by the electric streetlamps was a world of Moriartys, Markins and Sculptors...

But for once, Sherlock wasn't thinking.

For once, John wasn't worrying.

And for once, it really didn't matter.

...

_FIN._

_* sigh of relief* Thank God I didn't completely destroy this. I wholeheartedly thank all of you who read this._

_Keep an eye out for the sequel 'Make your move'. For all those who were looking for Sculptor, don't worry, he hasn't totally vanished from view. But you'll have to wait for that ;3 I'm such a tease._

_Yours,_

_Blood Red Queen x_


	17. Sequel Announcement

_Hi, just a little note to tell you all th sequel 'Make your Move' is now up :) _

_Six months after the events of 'An eye for an eye', Sherlock finds himself once more into Moriarty's sinister game. As the clock ticks and the blood flows, can Sherlock defeat his nemesis once and for all? But a mad psychopath isn't all his problems, John's past comes back to haunt them both. Can they-and more importantly, their sanity- survive?_

_Feel free to visit my profile and find it, I look forward to hearing from you._

_All my love, Blood Red Queen._


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